A  MOUNTAIN  WOMAN 


ELiA  W.  PEATTIE 


University  of  California  •  Berkeley 

FROM  THE  PAPERS  OF 
Frederick    J.    Kosher 


A  Mountain  Woman 


Mountain  Woman 

By 
Elia  W.  Peattie 


New  York 

Doubleday  6f  McClure  Co. 
1900 


COPYRIGHT 
Bv  WAY  &  WILLIAMS 

MDCCCXCVI 


First  Edition,  April  i,  1896. 
Second  Edition,  May,  1896. 


JSmfoemtg 
JOHN  WILSON  AND  SON,  CAMBRIDGE,  U.S.A. 


To 

My  best  Friend,  and  kindest  Critic, 
My  Husband. 


FOREWORD. 


MOST  of  the  tales  in  this  little  book  have 
been  printed  before.  "A  Mountain  Woman" 
appeared  in  Harper's  Weekly,  as  did  "  The 
Three  Johns  "  and  "  A  Resuscitation/'  "  Jim 
Lancy's  Waterloo  "  was  printed  in  the  Cosmo- 
politan, "  A  Michigan  Man  "  in  Lippincotfs, 
and  "Up  the  Gulch"  in  Two  Tales.  The 
courtesy  of  these  periodicals  in  permitting  the 
stories  to  be  republished  is  cordially  acknowl- 
edged. 

E.  W.  P. 


Contents 

PAGE 
A  MOUNTAIN  WOMAN i 

JIM  LANCY'S  WATERLOO 37 

THE  THREE  JOHNS 71 

A  RESUSCITATION 119 

Two  PIONEERS 147 

UP  THE  GULCH 173 

A  MICHIGAN  MAN 215 

A  LADY  OF  YESTERDAY 233 


A   Mountain  Woman 


IF  Leroy  Brainard  had  not  had  such  a 
respect  for  literature,  he  would  have 
written  a  book. 

As  it  was,  he  played  at  being  an  architect 
—  and  succeeded  in  being  a  charming  fellow. 
My  sister  Jessica  never  lost  an  opportunity 
of  laughing  at  his  endeavors  as  an  architect. 

"You  can  build  an  enchanting  villa,  but 
what  would  you  do  with  a  cathedral  ?  " 

"  I  shall  never  have  a  chance  at  a  cathe- 
dral," he  would  reply.  "And,  besides,  it 
always  seems  to  me  so  material  and  so  im- 
pertinent to  build  a  little  structure  of  stone 
and  wood  in  which  to  worship  God  !  " 

You  see  what  he  was  like  ?  He  was  frivo- 
lous, yet  one  could  never  tell  when  he  would 
become  eloquently  earnest. 

Brainard  went  off  suddenly  Westward  one 
day.  I  suspected  that  Jessica  was  at  the 


2  A  Mountain  Woman 

bottom  of  it,  but  I  asked  no  questions ;  and 
I  did  not  hear  from  him  for  months.  Then  I 
got  a  letter  from  Colorado. 

"  I  have  married  a  mountain  woman,"  he 
wrote.  "  None  of  your  puny  breed  of  modern 
femininity,  but  a  remnant  left  over  from  the 
heroic  ages,  —  a  primitive  woman,  grand  and 
vast  of  spirit,  capable  of  true  and  steadfast 
wifehood.  No  sophistry  about  her;  no 
knowledge  even  that  there  is  sophistry. 
Heavens !  man,  do  you  remember  the  ron- 
deaux  and  triolets  I  used  to  write  to  those 
pretty  creatures  back  East?  It  would  take 
a  Saga  man  of  the  old  Norseland  to  write 
for  my  mountain  woman.  If  I  were  an 
artist,  I  would  paint  her  with  the  north  star 
in  her  locks  and  her  feet  on  purple  cloud. 
I  suppose  you  are  at  the  Pier.  I  know  you 
usually  are  at  this  season.  At  any  rate,  I 
shall  direct  this  letter  thither,  and  will  follow 
close  after  it.  I  want  my  wife  to  see  some- 
thing of  life.  And  I  want  her  to  meet  your 
sister." 

"  Dear  me !  "  cried  Jessica,  when  I  read 
the  letter  to  her ;  "  I  don't  know  that  I  care 
to  meet  anything  quite  so  gigantic  as  that 


A  Mountain  Woman  3 

mountain  woman.  I  'm  one  of  the  puny  breed 
of  modern  femininity,  you  know.  I  don't 
think  my  nerves  can  stand  the  encounter." 

"  Why,  Jessica !  "  I  protested.  She  blushed 
a  little. 

"  Don't  think  bad  of  me,  Victor.  But,  you 
see,  I  Ve  a  little  scrap-book  of  those  triolets 
upstairs."  Then  she  burst  into  a  peal  of 
irresistible  laughter.  "  I  'm  not  laughing 
because  I  am  piqued,"  she  said  frankly. 
"  Though  any  one  will  admit  that  it  is 
rather  irritating  to  have  a  man  who  left 
you  in  a  blasted  condition  recover  with 
such  extraordinary  promptness.  As  a  phi- 
lanthropist, one  of  course  rejoices,  but  as  a 
woman,  Victor,  it  must  be  admitted  that  one 
has  a  right  to  feel  annoyed.  But,  honestly, 
I  am  not  ungenerous,  and  I  am  going  to  do 
him  a  favor.  I  shall  write,  and  urge  him 
not  to  bring  his  wife  here.  A  primitive 
woman,  with  the  north  star  in  her  hair, 
would  look  well  down  there  in  the  Casino 
eating  a  pineapple  ice,  wouldn't  she?  It's 
all  very  well  to  have  a  soul,  you  know ;  but 
it  won't  keep  you  from  looking  like  a  guy 
among  women  who  have  good  dressmakers. 


4  A  Mountain  Woman 

I  shudder  at  the  thought  of  what  the  poor 
thing  will  suffer  if  he  brings  her  here." 

Jessica  wrote,  as  she  said  she  would ;  but, 
for  all  that,  a  fortnight  later  she  was  walking 
down  the  wharf  with  the  "  mountain  woman," 
and  I  was  sauntering  beside  Leroy.  At 
dinner  Jessica  gave  me  no  chance  to  talk 
with  our  friend's  wife,  and  I  only  caught 
the  quiet  contralto  tones  of  her  voice  now 
and  then  contrasting  with  Jessica's  vivacious 
soprano.  A  drizzling  rain  came  up  from 
the  east  with  nightfall.  Little  groups  of 
shivering  men  and  women  sat  about  in  the 
parlors  at  the  card-tables,  and  one  blond 
woman  sang  love  songs.  The  Brainards 
were  tired  with  their  journey,  and  left  us 
early.  When  they  were  gone,  Jessica  burst 
into  eulogy. 

"  That  is  the  first  woman,"  she  declared, 
"  I  ever  met  who  would  make  a  fit  heroine 
for  a  book." 

"  Then  you  will  not  feel  under  obligations 
to  educate  her,  as  you  insinuated  the  other 
day?" 

"  Educate  her !  I  only  hope  she  will 
help  me  to  unlearn  some  of  the  things  I 


A  Mountain  Woman  5 

know.     I  never  saw  such  simplicity.     It  is 
antique !  " 

"  You  're  sure  it's  not  mere  vacuity?  " 

"Victor!  How  can  you?  But  you  have  n't 
talked  with  her.  You  must  to-morrow. 
Good-night."  She  gathered  up  her  trail- 
ing skirts  and  started  down  the  corridor. 
Suddenly  she  turned  back.  "  For  Heaven's 
sake ! "  she  whispered,  in  an  awed  tone, 
"  I  never  even  noticed  what  she  had  on !  " 

The  next  morning  early  we  made  up  a 
riding  party,  and  I  rode  with  Mrs.  Brainard. 
She  was  as  tall  as  I,  and  sat  in  her  saddle 
as  if  quite  unconscious  of  her  animal.  The 
road  stretched  hard  and  inviting  under  our 
horses'  feet.  The  wind  smelled  salt.  The 
sky  was  ragged  with  gray  masses  of  cloud 
scudding  across  the  blue.  I  was  beginning 
to  glow  with  exhilaration,  when  suddenly  my 
companion  drew  in  her  horse. 

"  If  you  do  not  mind,  we  will  go  back," 
she  said. 

Her  tone  was  dejected.  I  thought  she 
was  tired. 

"  Oh,  no  !  "  she  protested,  when  I  apolo- 
gized for  my  thoughtlessness  in  bringing  her 


6  A  Mountain  Woman 

so  far.  "  I  'm  not  tired.  I  can  ride  all  day. 
Where  I  come  from,  we  have  to  ride  if 
we  want  to  go  anywhere;  but  here  there 
seems  to  be  no  particular  place  to  —  to 
reach." 

"Are  you  so  utilitarian?"  I  asked,  laugh- 
ingly. "  Must  you  always  have  some  reason 
for  everything  you  do?  I  do  so  many  things 
just  for  the  mere  pleasure  of  doing  them, 
I  'm  afraid  you  will  have  a  very  poor  opinion 
of  me." 

"That  is  not  what  I  mean,"  she  said, 
flushing,  and  turning  her  large  gray  eyes  on 
me.  "  You  must  not  think  I  have  a  reason 
for  everything  I  do."  She  was  very  earnest, 
and  it  was  evident  that  she  was  unacquainted 
with  the  art  of  making  conversation.  "  But 
what  I  mean,"  she  went  on,  "  is  that  there  is 
no  place  —  no  end — to  reach."  She  looked 
back  over  her  shoulder  toward  the  west, 
where  the  trees  marked  the  sky  line,  and  an 
expression  of  loss  and  dissatisfaction  came 
over  her  face.  "  You  see,"  she  said,  apolo- 
getically, "  I  'm  used  to  different  things  —  to 
the  mountains.  I  have  never  been  where  I 
could  not  see  them  before  in  my  life." 


A  Mountain  Woman  7 

"  Ah,  I  see  !  I  suppose  it  is  odd  to  look 
up  and  find  them  not  there." 

"  It 's  like  being  lost,  this  not  having  any- 
thing around  you.  At  least,  I  mean,"  she 
continued  slowly,  as  if  her  thought  could 
not  easily  put  itself  in  words,  —  "I  mean 
it  seems  as  if  a  part  of  the  world  had  been 
taken  down.  It  makes  you  feel  lonesome, 
as  if  you  were  living  after  the  world  had 
begun  to  die." 

"  You  '11  get  used  to  it  in  a  few  days.  It 
seems  very  beautiful  to  me  here.  And  then 
you  will  have  so  much  life  to  divert  you." 

"Life?  But  there  is  always  that  every- 
where." 

"  I  mean  men  and  women." 

"  Oh !  Still,  I  am  not  used  to  them.  I 
think  I  might  be  not  —  not  very  happy  with 
them.  They  might  think  me  queer.  I 
think  I  would  like  to  show  your  sister  the 
mountains." 

"  She  has  seen  them  often." 

"  Oh,  she  told  me.  But  I  don't  mean 
those  pretty  green  hills  such  as  we  saw  com- 
ing here.  They  are  not  like  my  mountains. 
I  like  mountains  that  go  beyond  the  clouds, 


8  A  Mountain  Woman 

with  terrible  shadows  in  the  hollows,  and 
belts  of  snow  lying  in  the  gorges  where  the 
sun  cannot  reach,  and  the  snow  is  blue  in 
the  sunshine,  or  shining  till  you  think  it  is 
silver,  and  the  mist  so  wonderful  all  about 
it,  changing  each  moment  and  drifting  up 
and  down,  that  you  cannot  tell  what  name 
to  give  the  colors.  These  mountains  of 
yours  here  in  the  East  are  so  quiet;  mine 
are  shouting  all  the  time,  with  the  pines  and 
the  rivers.  The  echoes  are  so  loud  in  the 
valley  that  sometimes,  when  the  wind  is 
rising,  we  can  hardly  hear  a  man  talk  unless 
he  raises  his  voice.  There  are  four  cataracts 
near  where  I  live,  and  they  all  have  different 
voices,  just  as  people  do ;  and  one  of  them 
is  happy —  a  little  white  cataract  — and  it  falls 
where  the  sun  shines  earliest,  and  till  night 
it  is  shining.  But  the  others  only  get  the 
sun  now  and  then,  and  they  are  more  noisy 
and  cruel.  One  of  them  is  always  in  the 
shadow,  and  the  water  looks  black.  That 
is  partly  because  the  rocks  all  underneath 
it  are  black.  It  falls  down  twenty  great 
ledges  in  a  gorge  with  black  sides,  and  a 
white  mist  dances  all  over  it  at  every  leap. 


A  Mountain  Woman  9 

I  tell  father  the  mist  is  the  ghost  of  the 
waters.  No  man  ever  goes  there  ;  it  is  too 
cold.  The  chill  strikes  through  one,  and 
makes  your  heart  feel  as  if  you  were  dying. 
But  all  down  the  side  of  the  mountain, 
toward  the  south  and  the  west,  the  sun  shines 
on  the  granite  and  draws  long  points  of 
light  out  of  it.  Father  tells  me  soldiers 
marching  look  that  way  when  the  sun  strikes 
on  their  bayonets.  Those  are  the  kind  of 
mountains  I  mean,  Mr.  Grant." 

She  was  looking  at  me  with  her  face  trans- 
figured, as  if  it,  like  the  mountains  she  told 
me  of,  had  been  lying  in  shadow,  and  wait- 
ing for  the  dazzling  dawn. 

"  I  had  a  terrible  dream  once,"  she  went 
on  ;  "  the  most  terrible  dream  ever  I  had. 
I  dreamt  that  the  mountains  had  all  been 
taken  down,  and  that  I  stood  on  a  plain  to 
which  there  was  no  end.  The  sky  was  burn- 
ing up,  and  the  grass  scorched  brown  from 
the  heat,  and  it  was  twisting  as  if  it  were  in 
pain.  And  animals,  but  no  other  person 
save  myself,  only  wild  things,  were  crouch- 
ing and  looking  up  at  that  sky.  They  could 
not  run  because  there  was  no  place  to  which 
to  go." 


io  A  Mountain  Woman 

"  You  were  having  a  vision  of  the  last 
man,"  I  said.  "  I  wonder  myself  sometimes 
whether  this  old  globe  of  ours  is  going  to 
collapse  suddenly  and  take  us  with  her,  or 
whether  we  will  disappear  through  slow 
disastrous  ages  of  fighting  and  crushing, 
with  hunger  and  blight  to  help  us  to  the 
end.  And  then,  at  the  last,  perhaps,  some 
luckless  fellow,  stronger  than  the  rest,  will 
stand  amid  the  ribs  of  the  rotting  earth  and 
go  mad." 

The  woman's  eyes  were  fixed  on  me, 
large  and  luminous.  "  Yes,"  she  said ;  "  he 
would  go  mad  from  the  lonesomeness  of  it. 
He  would  be  afraid  to  be  left  alone  like  that 
with  God.  No  one  would  want  to  be  taken 
into  God's  secrets." 

"  And  our  last  man,"  I  went  on,  "  would 
have  to  stand  there  on  that  swaying  wreck 
till  even  the  sound  of  the  crumbling  earth 
ceased.  And  he  would  try  to  find  a  voice 
and  would  fail,  because  silence  would  have 
come  again.  And  then  the  light  would  go 
out  —  " 

The  shudder  that  crept  over  her  made 
me  stop,  ashamed  of  myself. 


A  Mountain  Woman  n 

"  You  talk  like  father,"  she  said,  with  a 
long-drawn  breath.  Then  she  looked  up 
suddenly  at  the  sun  shining  through  a  rift 
in  those  reckless  gray  clouds,  and  put  out 
one  hand  as  if  to  get  it  full  of  the  headlong 
rollicking  breeze.  "  But  the  earth  is  not 
dying,"  she  cried.  "  It  is  well  and  strong, 
and  it  likes  to  go  round  and  round  among 
all  the  other  worlds.  It  likes  the  sun  and 
moon;  they  are  all  good  friends;  and  it 
likes  the  people  who  live  on  it.  Maybe  it 
is  they  instead  of  the  fire  within  who  keep 
it  warm;  or  maybe  it  is  warm  just  from 
always  going,  as  we  are  when  we  run.  We 
are  young,  you  and  I,  Mr.  Grant,  and  Leroy, 
and  your  beautiful  sister,  and  the  world  is 
young  too !  "  Then  she  laughed  a  strong 
splendid  laugh,  which  had  never  had  the 
joy  taken  out  of  it  with  drawing-room  re- 
strictions; and  I  laughed  too,  and  felt  that 
we  had  become  very  good  companions 
indeed,  and  found  myself  warming  to  the 
joy  of  companionship  as  I  had  not  since  I 
was  a  boy  at  school. 

That  afternoon  the  four  of  us  sat  at  a 
table  in  the  Casino  together.  The  Casino, 


12  A  Mountain  Woman 

as  every  one  knows,  is  a  place  to  amuse 
yourself.  If  you  have  a  duty,  a  mission,  or 
an  aspiration,  you  do  not  take  it  there  with 
you,  it  would  be  so  obviously  out  of  place ; 
if  poverty  is  ahead  of  you,  you  forget  it ;  if 
you  have  brains,  you  hasten  to  conceal  them  ; 
they  would  be  a  serious  encumbrance. 

There  was  a  bubbling  of  conversation,  a 
rustle  and  flutter  such  as  there  always  is 
where  there  are  many  women.  All  the 
place  was  gay  with  flowers  and  with  gowns 
as  bright  as  the  flowers.  I  remembered  the 
apprehensions  of  my  sister,  and  studied 
Leroy's  wife  to  see  how  she  fitted  into  this 
highly  colored  picture.  She  was  the  only 
woman  in  the  room  who  seemed  to  wear 
draperies.  The  jaunty  slash  and  cut  of 
fashionable  attire  were  missing  in  the  long 
brown  folds  of  cloth  that  enveloped  her 
figure.  I  felt  certain  that  even  from  Jessica's 
standpoint  she  could  not  be  called  a  guy. 
Picturesque  she  might  be,  past  the  point  of 
convention,  but  she  was  not  ridiculous. 

"  Judith  takes  all  this  very  seriously,"  said 
Leroy,  laughingly.  "  I  suppose  she  would 
take  even  Paris  seriously." 


A  Mountain  Woman  13 

His  wife  smiled  over  at  him.  "  Leroy 
says  I  am  melancholy,"  she  said,  softly ; 
"  but  I  am  always  telling  him  that  I  am 
happy.  He  thinks  I  am  melancholy  be- 
cause I  do  not  laugh.  I  got  out  of  the  way 
of  it  by  being  so  much  alone.  You  only 
laugh  to  let  some  one  else  know  you  are 
pleased.  When  you  are  alone  there  is  no 
use  in  laughing.  It  would  be  like  explain- 
ing something  to  yourself." 

"  You  are  a  philosopher,  Judith.  Mr. 
Max  Miiller  would  like  to  know  you." 

"  Is  he  a  friend  of  yours,  dear?  " 

Leroy  blushed,  and  I  saw  Jessica  curl 
her  lip  as  she  noticed  the  blush.  She  laid 
her  hand  on  Mrs.  Brainard's  arm. 

"  Have  you  always  been  very  much 
alone?"  she  inquired. 

"I  was  born  on  the  ranch,  you  know; 
and  father  was  not  fond  of  leaving  it.  In- 
deed, now  he  says  he  will  never  again  go 
out  of  sight  of  it.  But  you  can  go  a  long 
journey  without  doing  that;  for  it  lies  on  a 
plateau  in  the  valley,  and  it  can  be  seen 
from  three  different  mountain  passes. 
Mother  died  there,  and  for  that  reason  and 


14  A  Mountain  Woman 

others  —  father  has  had  a  strange  life  —  he 
never  wanted  to  go  away.  He  brought  a 
lady  from  Pennsylvania  to  teach  me.  She 
had  wonderful  learning,  but  she  did  n't 
make  very  much  use  of  it.  I  thought  if  I 
had  learning  I  would  not  waste  it  reading 
books.  I  would  use  it  to  —  to  live  with. 
Father  had  a  library,  but  I  never  cared  for 
it.  He  was  forever  at  books  too.  Of 
course,"  she  hastened  to  add,  noticing  the 
look  of  mortification  deepen  on  her  hus- 
band's face,  "  I  like  books  very  well  if  there 
is  nothing  better  at  hand.  But  I  always 
said  to  Mrs.  Windsor  —  it  was  she  who 
taught  me  —  why  read  what  other  folk  have 
been  thinking  when  you  can  go  out  and 
think  yourself?  Of  course  one  prefers  one's 
own  thoughts,  just  as  one  prefers  one's  own 
ranch,  or  one's  own  father." 

"  Then  you  are  sure  to  like  New  York 
when  you  go  there  to  live,"  cried  Jessica; 
"  for  there  you  will  find  something  to  make 
life  entertaining  all  the  time.  No  one  need 
fall  back  on  books  there." 

"  I  'm  not  sure.  I  'm  afraid  there  must  be 
such  dreadful  crowds  of  people.  Of  course 


A  Mountain  Woman  15 

I  should  try  to  feel  that  they  were  all  like 
me,  with  just  the  same  sort  of  fears,  and 
that  it  was  ridiculous  for  us  to  be  afraid  of 
each  other,  when  at  heart  we  all  meant  to 
be  kind." 

Jessica  fairly  wrung  her  hands.  "  Hea- 
vens ! "  she  cried.  "  I  said  you  would  like 
New  York.  I  am  afraid,  my  dear,  that  it 
will  break  your  heart !  " 

"  Oh,"  said  Mrs.  Brainard,  with  what  was 
meant  to  be  a  gentle  jest,  "no  one  can 
break  my  heart  except  Leroy.  I  should 
not  care  enough  about  any  one  else,  you 
know." 

The  compliment  was  an  exquisite  one. 
I  felt  the  blood  creep  to  my  own  brain  in 
a  sort  of  vicarious  rapture,  and  I  avoided 
looking  at  Leroy  lest  he  should  dislike  to 
have  me  see  the  happiness  he  must  feel. 
The  simplicity  of  the  woman  seemed  to 
invigorate  me  as  the  cool  air  of  her  moun- 
tains might  if  it  blew  to  me  on  some  bright 
dawn,  when  I  had  come,  fevered  and  sick 
of  soul,  from  the  city. 

When  we  were  alone,  Jessica  said  to  me : 
"  That  man  has  too  much  vanity,  and  he 


16  A  Mountain  Woman 

thinks  it  is  sensitiveness.  He  is  going  to 
imagine  that  his  wife  makes  him  suffer. 
There 's  no  one  so  brutally  selfish  as  your 
sensitive  man.  He  wants  every  one  to  live 
according  to  his  ideas,  or  he  immediately 
begins  suffering.  That  friend  of  yours 
has  n't  the  courage  of  his  convictions.  He 
is  going  to  be  ashamed  of  the  very  qualities 
that  made  him  love  his  wife." 

There  was  a  hop  that  night  at  the  hotel, 
quite  an  unusual  affair  as  to  elegance,  given 
in  honor  of  a  woman  from  New  York,  who 
wrote  a  novel  a  month. 

Mrs.  Brainard  looked  so  happy  that  night 
when  she  came  in  the  parlor,  after  the 
music  had  begun,  that  I  felt  a  moisture 
gather  in  my  eyes  just  because  of  the  beauty 
of  her  joy,  and  the  forced  vivacity  of  the 
women  about  me  seemed  suddenly  coarse 
and  insincere.  Some  wonderful  red  stones, 
brilliant  as  rubies,  glittered  in  among  the 
diaphanous  black  driftings  of  her  dress. 
She  asked  me  if  the  stones  were  not  very 
pretty,  and  said  she  gathered  them  in  one 
of  her  mountain  river-beds. 

"  But  the  gown?"  I  said.     "  Surely,  you 


A  Mountain  Woman  17 

do  not  gather  gowns  like  that  in  river-beds, 
or  pick  them  off  mountain-pines?  " 

"  But  you  can  get  them  in  Denver.  Father 
always  sent  to  Denver  for  my  finery.  He 
was  very  particular  about  how  I  looked. 
You  see,  I  was  all  he  had  — "  She  broke 
off,  her  voice  faltering. 

"  Come  over  by  the  window,"  I  said,  to 
change  her  thought.  "  I  have  something  to 
repeat  to  you.  It  is  a  song  of  Sydney 
Lanier's.  I  think  he  was  the  greatest  poet 
that  ever  lived  in  America,  though  not 
many  agree  with  me.  But  he  is  my  dear 
friend  anyway,  though  he  is  dead,  and  I 
never  saw  him  ;  and  I  want  you  to  hear 
some  of  his  words." 

I  led  her  across  to  an  open  window.  The 
dancers  were  whirling  by  us.  The  waltz 
was  one  of  those  melancholy  ones  which 
speak  the  spirit  of  the  dance  more  elo- 
quently than  any  merry  melody  can.  The 
sound  of  the  sea  booming  beyond  in  the 
darkness  came  to  us,  and  long  paths  of 
light,  now  red,  now  green,  stretched  toward 
the  distant  light-house.  These  were  the 
lines  I  repeated:  — 


1 8  A  Mountain  Woman 

"  What  heartache  —  ne'er  a  hill ! 
Inexorable,  vapid,  vague,  and  chill 
The  drear  sand  levels  drain  my  spirit  low. 
With  one  poor  word  they  tell  me  all  they  know; 
Whereat  their  stupid  tongues,  to  tease  my  pain, 
Do  drawl  it  o'er  and  o'er  again. 
They  hurt  my  heart  with  griefs  I  cannot  name : 
Always  the  same  —  the  same." 


But  I  got  no  further.  I  felt  myself  moved 
with  a  sort  of  passion  which  did  not  seem  to 
come  from  within,  but  to  be  communicated 
to  me  from  her.  A  certain  unfamiliar  hap- 
piness pricked  through  with  pain  thrilled 
me,  and  I  heard  her  whispering,  — 

"  Do  not  go  on,  do  not  go  on  !  I  cannot 
stand  it  to-night !  " 

"  Hush,"  I  whispered  back ;  "  come  out 
for  a  moment !  "  We  stole  into  the  dusk 
without,  and  stood  there  trembling.  I 
swayed  with  her  emotion.  There  was  a 
long  silence.  Then  she  said  :  "  Father  may 
be  walking  alone  now  by  the  black  cataract. 
That  is  where  he  goes  when  he  is  sad.  I 
can  see  how  lonely  he  looks  among  those 
little  twisted  pines  that  grow  from  the  rock. 
And  he  will  be  remembering  all  the  evenings 


A  Mountain  Woman  19 

we  walked  there  together,  and  all  the  things 
we  said."  I  did  not  answer.  Her  eyes 
were  still  on  the  sea. 

"  What  was  the  name  of  the  man  who 
wrote  that  verse  you  just  said  to  me?" 

I  told  her. 

"And  he  is  dead?  Did  they  bury  him 
in  the  mountains?  No?  I  wish  I  could 
have  put  him  where  he  could  have  heard 
those  four  voices  calling  down  the  canyon." 

"  Come  back  in  the  house,"  I  said ;  "  you 
must  come,  indeed,"  I  said,  as  she  shrank 
from  re-entering. 

Jessica  was  dancing  like  a  fairy  with  Le- 
roy.  They  both  saw  us  and  smiled  as  we 
came  in,  and  a  moment  later  they  joined  us. 
I  made  my  excuses  and  left  my  friends  to 
Jessica's  care.  She  was  a  sort  of  social 
tyrant  wherever  she  was,  and  I  knew  one 
word  from  her  would  insure  the  popularity 
of  our  friends  —  not  that  they  needed  the 
intervention  of  any  one.  Leroy  had  been 
a  sort  of  drawing-room  pet  since  before  he 
stopped  wearing  knickerbockers. 

*'  He  is  at  his  best  in  a  drawing-room," 
said  Jessica,  "  because  there  he  deals  with 


2o  A  Mountain  Woman 

theory  and  not  with  action.  And  he  has 
such  beautiful  theories  that  the  women,  who 
are  all  idealists,  adore  him." 

The  next  morning  I  awoke  with  a  con- 
viction that  I  had  been  idling  too  long.  I 
went  back  to  the  city  and  brushed  the  dust 
from  my  desk.  Then  each  morning,  I,  as 
Jessica  put  it,  "  formed  public  opinion " 
to  the  extent  of  one  column  a  day  in  the 
columns  of  a  certain  enterprising  morning 
journal. 

Brainard  said  I  had  treated  him  shabbily 
to  leave  upon  the  heels  of  his  coming.  But 
a  man  who  works  for  his  bread  and  butter 
must  put  a  limit  to  his  holiday.  It  is  dif- 
ferent when  you  only  work  to  add  to  your 
general  picturesqueness.  That  is  what  I 
wrote  Leroy,  and  it  was  the  unkindest  thing 
I  ever  said  to  him ;  and  why  I  did  it  I  do 
not  know  to  this  day.  I  was  glad,  though, 
when  he  failed  to  answer  the  letter.  It  gave 
me  a  more  reasonable  excuse  for  feeling 
out  of  patience  with  him. 

The  days  that  followed  were  very  dull. 
It  was  hard  to  get  back  into  the  way  of 
working.  I  was  glad  when  Jessica  came 


A  Mountain  Woman  21 

home  to  set  up  our  little  establishment  and 
to  join  in  the  autumn  gayeties.  Brainard 
brought  his  wife  to  the  city  soon  after,  and 
went  to  housekeeping  in  an  odd  sort  of  a 
way. 

"  I  could  n't  see  anything  in  the  place  save 
curios,"  Jessica  reported,  after  her  first  call 
on  them.  "  I  suppose  there  is  a  cooking- 
stove  somewhere,  and  maybe  even  a  pantry 
with  pots  in  it.  But  all  I  saw  was  Alaska 
totems  and  Navajo  blankets.  They  have 
as  many  skins  around  on  the  floor  and 
couches  as  would  have  satisfied  an  ancient 
Briton.  And  everybody  was  calling  there. 
You  know  Mr.  Brainard  runs  to  curios  in 
selecting  his  friends  as  well  as  his  furniture. 
The  parlors  were  full  this  afternoon  of  ab- 
normal people,  that  is  to  say,  with  folks  one 
reads  about.  I  was  the  only  one  there  who 
hadn't  done  something.  I  guess  it's  be- 
cause I  am  too  healthy." 

"  How  did  Mrs.  Brainard  like  such  a 
motley  crew  ?  " 

"  She  was  wonderful  —  perfectly  wonder- 
ful !  Those  insulting  creatures  were  all 
studying  her,  and  she  knew  it.  But  her 


22  A  Mountain  Woman 

dignity  was  perfect,  and  she  looked  as  proud 
as  a  Sioux  chief.  She  listened  to  every  one, 
and  they  all  thought  her  so  bright." 

"  Brainard  must  have  been  tremendously 
proud  of  her." 

"  Oh,  he  was  —  of  her  and  his  Chilcat 
portieres." 

Jessica  was  there  often,  but  —  well,  I  was 
busy.  At  length,  however,  I  was  forced  to 
go.  Jessica  refused  to  make  any  further 
excuses  for  me.  The  rooms  were  filled  with 
small  celebrities. 

"  We  are  the  only  nonentities,"  whispered 
Jessica,  as  she  looked  around ;  "  it  will  make 
us  quite  distinguished." 

We  went  to  speak  to  our  hostess.  She 
stood  beside  her  husband,  looking  taller 
than  ever;  and  her  face  was  white.  Her 
long  red  gown  of  clinging  silk  was  so  pe- 
culiar as  to  give  one  the  impression  that  she 
was  dressed  in  character.  It  was  easy  to 
tell  that  it  was  one  of  Leroy's  fancies.  I 
hardly  heard  what  she  said,  but  I  know  she 
reproached  me  gently  for  not  having  been 
to  see  them.  I  had  no  further  word  with 
her  till  some  one  led  her  to  the  piano,  and 
she  paused  to  say,  — 


A  Mountain  Woman  23 

"  That  poet  you  spoke  of  to  me  —  the  one 
you  said  was  a  friend  of  yours  —  he  is  my 
friend  now  too,  and  I  have  learned  to  sing 
some  of  his  songs.  I  am  going  to  sing  one 
now."  She  seemed  to  have  no  timidity  at 
all,  but  stood  quietly,  with  a  half  smile, 
while  a  young  man  with  a  Russian  name 
played  a  strange  minor  prelude.  Then  she 
sang,  her  voice  a  wonderful  contralto,  cold  at 
times,  and  again  lit  up  with  gleams  of  pas- 
sion. The  music  itself  was  fitful,  now  full 
of  joy,  now  tender,  and  now  sad : 

"  Look  off,  dear  love,  across  the  sallow  sands, 
And  mark  yon  meeting  of  the  sun  and  sea, 
How  long  they  kiss  in  sight  of  all  the  lands, 
Ah  !  longer,  longer  we." 

"  She  has  a  genius  for  feeling,  has  n't 
she?"  Leroy  whispered  to  me. 

"A  genius  for  feeling!"  I  repeated, 
angrily.  "  Man,  she  has  a  heart  and  a  soul 
and  a  brain,  if  that  is  what  you  mean !  I 
should  n't  think  you  would  be  able  to  look 
at  her  from  the  standpoint  of  a  critic." 

Leroy  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  went 
off.  For  a  moment  I  almost  hated  him  for 


24  A  Mountain  Woman 

not  feeling  more  resentful.  I  felt  as  if  he 
owed  it  to  his  wife  to  take  offence  at  my 
foolish  speech. 

It  was  evident  that  the  "  mountain  woman  " 
had  become  the  fashion.  I  read  reports  in 
the  papers  about  her  unique  receptions.  I 
saw  her  name  printed  conspicuously  among 
the  list  of  those  who  attended  all  sorts  of 
dinners  and  musicales  and  evenings  among 
the  set  that  affected  intellectual  pursuits. 
She  joined  a  number  of  women's  clubs  of 
an  exclusive  kind. 

"  She  is  doing  whatever  her  husband  tells 
her  to,"  said  Jessica.  "  Why,  the  other  day 
I  heard  her  ruining  her  voice  on  '  Siegfried ' !" 

But  from  day  to  day  I  noticed  a  difference 
in  her.  She  developed  a  terrible  activity. 
She  took  personal  charge  of  the  affairs  of 
her  house ;  she  united  with  Leroy  in  keep- 
ing the  house  filled  with  guests;  she  got 
on  the  board  of  a  hospital  for  little  children, 
and  spent  a  part  of  every  day  among  the 
cots  where  the  sufferers  lay.  Now  and  then 
when  we  spent  a  quiet  evening  alone  with 
her  and  Leroy,  she  sewed  continually  on 
little  white  night-gowns  for  these  poor  babies. 


A  Mountain  Woman  25 

She  used  her  carriage  to  take  the  most  ex- 
traordinary persons  riding. 

"  In  the  cause  of  health,"  Leroy  used  to 
say,  "  I  ought  to  have  the  carriage  fumi- 
gated after  every  ride  Judith  takes,  for  she 
is  always  accompanied  by  some  one  who  looks 
as  if  he  or  she  should  go  into  quarantine." 

One  night,  when  he  was  chaffing  her  in 
this  way,  she  flung  her  sewing  suddenly 
from  her  and  sprang  to  her  feet,  as  if  she 
were  going  to  give  way  to  a  burst  of  girlish 
temper.  Instead  of  that,  a  stream  of  tears 
poured  from  her  eyes,  and  she  held  out  her 
trembling  hands  toward  Jessica. 

"  He  does  not  know,"  she  sobbed.  "  He 
cannot  understand." 

One  memorable  day  Leroy  hastened  over 
to  us  while  we  were  still  at  breakfast  to  say 
that  Judith  was  ill, — strangely  ill.  All  night 
long  she  had  been  muttering  to  herself  as  if 
in  a  delirium.  Yet  she  answered  lucidly  all 
questions  that  were  put  to  her. 

"  She  begs  for  Miss  Grant.  She  says 
over  and  over  that  she  '  knows/  whatever 
that  may  mean." 

When  Jessica  came  home  she  told  me  she 


26  A  Mountain  Woman 

did  not  know.  She  only  felt  that  a  tumult 
of  impatience  was  stirring  in  her  friend. 

"  There  is  something  majestic  about  her, — 
something  epic.  I  feel  as  if  she  were  mak- 
ing me  live  a  part  in  some  great  drama,  the 
end  of  which  I  cannot  tell.  She  is  suffering, 
but  I  cannot  tell  why  she  suffers." 

Weeks  went  on  without  an  abatement  in 
this  strange  illness.  She  did  not  keep  her 
bed.  Indeed,  she  neglected  few  of  her  usual 
occupations.  But  her  hands  were  burning, 
and  her  eyes  grew  bright  with  that  wild 
sort  of  lustre  one  sees  in  the  eyes  of  those 
who  give  themselves  up  to  strange  drugs  or 
manias.  She  grew  whimsical,  and  formed 
capricious  friendships,  only  to  drop  them. 

And  then  one  day  she  closed  her  house 
to  all  acquaintances,  and  sat  alone  continu- 
ally in  her  room,  with  her  hands  clasped 
in  her  lap,  and  her  eyes  swimming  with  the 
emotions  that  never  found  their  way  to  her 
tongue. 

Brainard  came  to  the  office  to  talk  with 
me  about  her  one  day.  "  I  am  a  very  miser- 
able man,  Grant,"  he  said.  "  I  am  afraid  I 
have  lost  my  wife's  regard.  Oh,  don't  tell  me 


A  Mountain  Woman  27 

it  is  partly  my  fault.  I  know  it  well  enough. 
And  I  know  you  have  n't  had  a  very  good 
opinion  of  me  lately.  But  I  am  remorseful 
enough  now,  God  knows.  And  I  would  give 
my  life  to  see  her  as  she  was  when  I  found 
her  first  among  the  mountains.  Why,  she 
used  to  climb  them  like  a  strong  man,  and 
she  was  forever  shouting  and  singing.  And 
she  had  peopled  every  spot  with  strange 
modern  mythological  creatures.  Her  father 
is  an  old  dreamer,  and  she  got  the  trick  from 
him.  They  had  a  little  telescope  on  a  great 
knoll  in  the  centre  of  the  valley,  just  where 
it  commanded  a  long  path  of  stars,  and  they 
used  to  spend  nights  out  there  when  the 
frost  literally  fell  in  flakes.  When  I  think 
how  hardy  and  gay  she  was,  how  full  of 
courage  and  life,  and  look  at  her  now,  so 
feverish  and  broken,  I  feel  as  if  I  should  go 
mad.  You  know  I  never  meant  to  do  her 
any  harm.  Tell  me  that  much,  Grant." 

"  I  think  you  were  very  egotistical  for  a 
while,  Brainard,  and  that  is  a  fact.  And 
you  did  n't  appreciate  how  much  her  nature 
demanded.  But  I  do  not  think  you  are  re- 
sponsible for  your  wife's  present  condition. 


28  A  Mountain  Woman 

If  there  is  any  comfort  in  that  statement, 
you  are  welcome  to  it." 

"  But  you  don't  mean  — "  he  got  no 
further. 

"I  mean  that  your  wife  may  have  her 
reservations,  just  as  we  all  have,  and  I  am 
paying  her  high  praise  when  I  say  it.  You 
are  not  so  narrow,  Leroy,  as  to  suppose  for 
a  moment  that  the  only  sort  of  passion  a 
woman  is  capable  of  is  that  which  she  enter- 
tains for  a  man.  How  do  I  know  what 
is  going  on  in  your  wife's  soul?  But  it  is 
nothing  which  even  an  idealist  of  women, 
such  as  I  am,  old  fellow,  need  regret." 

How  glad  I  was  afterward  that  I  spoke 
those  words.  They  exercised  a  little  re- 
straint, perhaps,  on  Leroy  when  the  day 
of  his  terrible  trial  came.  They  made  him 
wrestle  with  the  demon  of  suspicion  that 
strove  to  possess  him.  I  was  sitting  in  my 
office,  lagging  dispiritedly  over  my  work 
one  day,  when  the  door  burst  open  and 
Brainard  stood  beside  me.  Brainard,  I  say, 
and  yet  in  no  sense  the  man  I  had  known, 
—  not  a  hint  in  this  pale  creature,  whose 
breath  struggled  through  chattering  teeth, 


A  Mountain  Woman  29 

and  whose  hands  worked  in  uncontrollable 
spasms,  of  the  nonchalant  elegant  I  had 
known.  Not  a  glimpse  to  be  seen  in  those 
angry  and  determined  eyes  of  the  gayly 
selfish  spirit  of  my  holiday  friend. 

"  She 's  gone  !  "  he  gasped.  "  Since  yes- 
terday. And  I'm  here  to  ask  you  what 
you  think  now?  And  what  you  know." 

A  panorama  of  all  shameful  possibilities 
for  one  black  moment  floated  before  me. 
I  remember  this  gave  place  to  a  wave,  cold 
as  death,  that  swept  from  head  to  foot; 
then  Brainard's  hands  fell  heavily  on  my 
shoulders. 

"  Thank  God  at  least  for  this  much,"  he 
said,  hoarsely;  "  I  did  n't  know  at  first  but 
I  had  lost  both  friend  and  wife.  But  I  see 
you  know  nothing.  And  indeed  in  my 
heart  I  knew  all  the  time  that  you  did  not. 
Yet  I  had  to  come  to  you  with  my  anger. 
And  I  remembered  how  you  defended  her. 
What  explanation  can  you  offer  now?  " 

I  got  him  to  sit  down  after  a  while  and 
tell  me  what  little  there  was  to  tell.  He 
had  been  away  for  a  day's  shooting,  and 
when  he  returned  he  found  only  the  per- 


3<D  A  Mountain  Woman 

plexed  servants  at  home.  A  note  was  left 
for  him.  He  showed  it  to  me. 

"  There  are  times,"  it  ran,  "  when  we  must 
do  as  we  must,  not  as  we  would.  I  am  go- 
ing to  do  something  I  have  been  driven  to 
do  since  I  left  my  home.  I  do  not  leave 
any  message  of  love  for  you,  because  you 
would  not  care  for  it  from  a  woman  so  weak 
as  I.  But  it  is  so  easy  for  you  to  be  happy 
that  I  hope  in  a  little  while  you  will  forget 
the  wife  who  yielded  to  an  influence  past 
resisting.  It  may  be  madness,  but  I  am 
not  great  enough  to  give  it  up.  I  tried  to 
make  the  sacrifice,  but  I  could  not.  I  tried 
to  be  as  gay  as  you,  and  to  live  your  sort  of 
life ;  but  I  could  not  do  it.  Do  not  make 
the  effort  to  forgive  me.  You  will  be  hap- 
pier if  you  simply  hold  me  in  the  contempt 
I  deserve." 

I  read  the  letter  over  and  over.  I  do  not 
know  that  I  believe  that  the  spirit  of  inani- 
mate things  can  permeate  to  the  intelligence 
of  man.  I  am  sure  I  always  laughed  at 
such  ideas.  Yet  holding  that  note  with  its 
shameful  seeming  words,  I  felt  a  conscious- 
ness that  it  was  written  in  purity  and  love. 


A  Mountain  Woman  31 

And  then  before  my  eyes  there  came  a  scene 
so  vivid  that  for  a  moment  the  office  with  its 
familiar  furniture  was  obliterated.  What  I 
saw  was  a  long  firm  road,  green  with  mid- 
summer luxuriance.  The  leisurely  thudding 
of  my  horse's  feet  sounded  in  my  ears.  Be- 
side me  was  a  tall,  black-robed  figure.  I 
saw  her  look  back  with  that  expression  of 
deprivation  at  the  sky  line.  "  It's  like  liv- 
ing after  the  world  has  begun  to  die,"  said 
the  pensive  minor  voice.  "  It  seems  as  if 
part  of  the  world  had  been  taken  down." 

"Brainard,"  I  yelled,  "come  here!  I 
have  it.  Here 's  your  explanation.  I  can 
show  you  a  new  meaning  for  every  line  of 
this  letter.  Man,  she  has  gone  to  the  moun- 
tains. She  has  gone  to  worship  her  own 
gods ! " 

Two  weeks  later  I  got  a  letter  from  Brain- 
ard, dated  from  Colorado. 

"  Old  man,"  it  said,  "  you  're  right.  She 
is  here.  I  found  my  mountain  woman  here 
where  the  four  voices  of  her  cataracts  had 
been  calling  to  her.  I  saw  her  the  moment 
our  mules  rounded  the  road  that  commands 
the  valley.  We  had  been  riding  all  night 


32  A  Mountain  Woman 

and  were  drenched  with  cold  dew,  hungry 
to  desperation,  and  my  spirits  were  of  lead. 
Suddenly  we  got  out  from  behind  the  gran- 
ite wall,  and  there  she  was,  standing,  where  I 
had  seen  her  so  often,  beside  the  little  water- 
fall that  she  calls  the  happy  one.  She  was 
looking  straight  up  at  the  billowing  mist 
that  dipped  down  the  mountain,  mammoth 
saffron  rolls  of  it,  plunging  so  madly  from 
the  impetus  of  the  wind  that  one  marvelled 
how  it  could  be  noiseless.  Ah,  you  do  not 
know  Judith !  That  strange,  unsophisti- 
cated, sometimes  awkward  woman  you  saw 
bore  no  more  resemblance  to  my  mountain 
woman  than  I  to  Hercules.  How  strong  and 
beautiful  she  looked  standing  there  wrapped 
in  an  ecstasy !  It  was  my  primitive  woman 
back  in  her  primeval  world.  How  the  blood 
leaped  in  me !  All  my  old  romance,  so  dif- 
ferent from  the  common  love-histories  of 
most  men,  was  there  again  within  my  reach  ! 
All  the  mystery,  the  poignant  happiness 
were  mine  again.  Do  not  hold  me  in  con- 
tempt because  I  show  you  my  heart.  You 
saw  my  misery.  Why  should  I  grudge  you 
a  glimpse  of  my  happiness?  She  saw  me 


A  Mountain  Woman  33 

when  I  touched  her  hand,  not  before,  so 
wrapped  was  she.  But  she  did  not  seem 
surprised.  Only  in  her  splendid  eyes  there 
came  a  large  content.  She  pointed  to  the 
dancing  little  white  fall.  '  I  thought  some- 
thing wonderful  was  going  to  happen/  she 
whispered,  *  for  it  has  been  laughing  so.' 

"  I  shall  not  return  to  New  York.  I  am 
going  to  stay  here  with  my  mountain  wo- 
man, and  I  think  perhaps  I  shall  find  out 
what  life  means  here  sooner  than  I  would 
back  there  with  you.  I  shall  learn  to  see 
large  things  large  and  small  things  small. 
Judith  says  to  tell  you  and  Miss  Grant  that 
the  four  voices  are  calling  for  you  every 
day  in  the  valley. 

"  Yours  in  fullest  friendship, 

"LEROY  BRAINARD." 


Jim  Lancy's  Waterloo 


Jim  Lancy's  Waterloo 


"  \\7  E  must  get  married  before  time  to  put 
in  crops,"  he  wrote.  "  We  must  make 
a  success  of  the  farm  the  first  year,  for  luck. 
Could  you  manage  to  be  ready  to  come  out 
West  by  the  last  of  February?  After  March 
opens  there  will  be  no  let-up,  and  I  do  not 
see  how  I  could  get  away.  Make  it  Febru- 
ary, Annie  dear.  A  few  weeks  more  or  less 
can  make  no  difference  to  you,  but  they 
make  a  good  deal  of  difference  to  me." 

The  woman  to  whom  this  was  written  read 
it  with  something  like  anger.  "  I  don't  be- 
lieve he  's  so  impatient  for  me  !  "  she  said 
to  herself.  "What  he  wants  is  to  get  the 
crops  in  on  time."  But  she  changed  the  date 
of  their  wedding,  and  made  it  February. 

Their  wedding  journey  was  only  from 
the  Illinois  village  where  she  lived  to  their 
Nebraska  farm.  They  had  never  been  much 


38  A  Mountain  Woman 

together,  and  they  had  much  to  say  to  each 
other. 

"  Farming  won't  come  hard  to  you,"  Jim 
assured  her.  "  All  one  needs  to  farm  with 
is  brains." 

"What  a  success  you  '11  make  of  it !  "  she 
cried  saucily. 

"I  wish  I  had  my  farm  clear,"  Jim  went 
on ;  "  but  that 's  more  than  any  one  has 
around  me.  I  'm  no  worse  off  than  the  rest. 
We've  got  to  pay  off  the  mortgage,  Annie." 

"  Of  course  we  must.  We  '11  just  do  with- 
out till  we  get  the  mortgage  lifted.  Hard 
work  will  do  anything,  I  guess.  And  I  'm 
not  afraid  to  work,  Jim,  though  I  Ve  never 
had  much  experience." 

Jim  looked  out  of  the  window  a  long  time, 
at  the  gentle  undulations  of  the  brown  Iowa 
prairie.  His  eyes  seem  to  pierce  beneath 
the  sod,  to  the  swelling  buds  of  the  yet 
invisible  grass.  He  noticed  how  disdain- 
fully the  rains  of  the  new  year  beat  down 
the  grasses  of  the  year  that  was  gone.  It 
opened  to  his  mind  a  vision  of  the  season's 
possibilities.  For  a  moment,  even  amid 
the  smoke  of  the  car,  he  seemed  to  scent 


Jim  Lancy's  Waterloo  39 

clover,  and  hear  the  stiff  swishing  of  the 
corn  and  the  dull  burring  of  the  bees. 

"  I  wish  sometimes,"  he  said,  leaning  for- 
ward to  look  at  his  bride,  "  that  I  had  been 
born  something  else  than  a  farmer.  But  I 
can  no  more  help  farming,  Annie,  than  a 
bird  can  help  singing,  or  a  bee  making 
honey.  I  did  n't  take  to  farming.  I  was 
simply  born  with  a  hoe  in  my  hand." 

"  I  don't  know  a  blessed  thing  about  it," 
Annie  confessed.  "But  I  made  up  my 
mind  that  a  farm  with  you  was  better  than 
a  town  without  you.  That 's  all  there  is  to 
it,  as  far  as  I  am  concerned." 

Jim  Lancy  slid  his  arm  softly  about  her 
waist,  unseen  by  the  other  passengers. 
Annie  looked  up  apprehensively,  to  see  if 
any  one  was  noticing.  But  they  were 
eating  their  lunches.  It  was  a  common 
coach  on  which  they  were  riding.  There 
was  a  Pullman  attached  to  the  train,  and 
Annie  had  secretly  thought  that,  as  it  was 
their  wedding  journey,  it  might  be  more 
becoming  to  take  it.  But  Jim  had  made 
no  suggestion  about  it.  What  he  said  later 
explained  the  reason. 


4O  A  Mountain  Woman 

"  I  would  have  liked  to  have  brought  you 
a  fine  present,"  he  said.  "  It  seemed  shabby 
to  come  with  nothing  but  that  little  ring. 
But  I  put  everything  I  had  on  our  home, 
you  know.  And  yet,  I  'm  sure  you  '11  think 
it  poor  enough  after  what  you  Ve  been  used 
to.  You  '11  forgive  me  for  only  bringing  the 
ring,  my  dear?  " 

"  But  you  brought  me  something  better," 
Annie  whispered.  She  was  a  foolish  little 
girl.  "  You  brought  me  love,  you  know." 
Then  they  rode  in  silence  for  a  long  time. 
Both  of  them  were  new  to  the  phraseology 
of  love.  Their  simple  compliments  to  each 
other  were  almost  ludicrous.  But  any  one 
who  might  have  chanced  to  overhear  them 
would  have  been  charmed,  for  they  betrayed 
an  innocence  as  beautiful  as  an  unclouded 
dawn. 

Annie  tried  hard  not  to  be  depressed 
by  the  treeless  stretches  of  the  Nebraska 
plains. 

"  This  is  different  from  Illinois,"  she 
ventured  once,  gently;  "it  is  even  different 
from  Iowa." 

"Yes,  yes,"  cried  Jim,  enthusiastically,  "  it 


Jim  Lancy's  Waterloo  41 

is  different !  It  is  the  finest  country  in  the 
world !  You  never  feel  shut  in.  You  can 
always  see  off.  I  feel  at  home  after  I  get 
in  Nebraska.  I  'd  choke  back  where  you 
live,  with  all  those  little  gullies  and  the  trees 
everywhere.  It's  a  mystery  to  me  how 
farmers  have  patience  to  work  there." 

Annie  opened  her  eyes.  There  was  evi- 
dently more  than  one  way  of  looking  at  a 
question.  The  farm-houses  seemed  very 
low  and  mean  to  her,  as  she  looked  at  them 
from  the  window.  There  were  no  fences, 
excepting  now  and  then  the  inhospitable 
barbed  wire.  The  door-yards  were  bleak  to 
her  eyes,  without  the  ornamental  shrubbery 
which  every  farmer  in  her  part  of  the  country 
was  used  to  tending.  The  cattle  stood  un- 
shedded  in  their  corrals.  The  reapers  and 
binders  stood  rusting  in  the  dull  drizzle. 

"  How  shiftless  !  "  cried  Annie,  indignantly. 
"  What  do  these  men  mean  by  letting  their 
machinery  lie  out  that  way?  I  should  think 
one  winter  of  lying  out  would  hurt  it  more 
than  three  summers  of  using." 

"  It  does.  But  sheds  are  not  easily  had. 
Lumber  is  dear." 


42  A  Mountain  Woman 

"  But  I  should  think  it  would  be  economy 
even  then." 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  perhaps.  But  we  all  do 
that  way  out  here.  It  takes  some  money  for 
a  man  to  be  economical  with.  Some  of  us 
haven't  even  that  much." 

There  was  a  six-mile  ride  from  the  station. 
The  horses  were  waiting,  hitched  up  to  a 
serviceable  light  wagon,  and  driven  by  the 
"help."  He  was  a  thin  young  man,  with 
red  hair,  and  he  blushed  vicariously  for  Jim 
and  Annie,  who  were  really  too  entertained 
with  each  other,  and  at  the  idea  of  the  new 
life  opening  up  before  them,  to  think  any- 
thing about  blushing.  At  the  station,  a 
number  of  men  insisted  on  shaking  hands 
with  Jim,  and  being  introduced  to  his  wife. 
They  were  all  bearded,  as  if  shaving  were 
an  unnecessary  labor,  and  their  trousers  were 
tucked  in  dusty  top-boots,  none  of  which 
had  ever  seen  blacking.  Annie  had  a  sense 
of  these  men  seeming  unwashed,  or  as  if 
they  had  slept  in  their  clothes.  But  they 
had  kind  voices,  and  their  eyes  were  very 
friendly.  So  she  shook  hands  with  them  all 
with  heartiness,  and  asked  them  to  drive  out 
and  bring  their  womenkind. 


Jim  Lancy' s  Waterloo  43 

"  I  am  going  to  make  up  my  mind  not 
to  be  lonesome,"  she  declared ;  "  but,  all  the 
same,  I  shall  want  to  see  some  women." 

Annie  had  got  safe  on  the  high  seat  of 
the  wagon,  and  was  balancing  her  little  feet 
on  the  inclined  foot-rest,  when  a  woman 
came  running  across  the  street,  calling 
aloud,  — 

"  Mr.  Lancy !  Mr.  Lancy  !  You  're  not 
going  to  drive  away  without  introducing 
me  to  your  wife !  " 

She  was  a  thin  little  woman,  with  move- 
ments as  nervous  and  as  graceless  as  those  of 
a  grasshopper.  Her  dun-colored  garments 
seemed  to  have  all  the  hue  bleached  out  of 
them  with  wind  and  weather.  Her  face  was 
brown  and  wrinkled,  and  her  bright  eyes 
flashed  restlessly,  deep  in  their  sockets.  Two 
front  teeth  were  conspicuously  missing  ;  and 
her  faded  hair  was  blown  in  wisps  about 
her  face.  Jim  performed  the  introduction, 
and  Annie  held  out  her  hand.  It  was  a 
pretty  hand,  delicately  gloved  in  dove  color. 
The  woman  took  it  in  her  own,  and  after 
she  had  shaken  it,  held  it  for  a  silent  mo- 
ment, looking  at  it  Then  she  almost  threw 


44  A  Mountain  Woman 

it  from  her.  The  eyes  which  she  lifted 
to  scan  the  bright  young  face  above  her 
had  something  like  agony  in  them.  Annie 
blushed  under  this  fierce  scrutiny,  and  the 
woman,  suddenly  conscious  of  her  demeanor, 
forced  a  smile  to  her  lips. 

"  I  '11  come  out  an'  see  yeh,"  she  said,  in 
cordial  tones.  "  May  be,  as  a  new  house- 
keeper, you  '11  like  a  little  advice.  You  Ve  a 
nice  place,  an'  I  wish  yeh  luck." 

"  Thank  you.  I  'm  sure  I  '11  need  advice," 
cried  Annie,  as  they  drove  off.  Then  she 
said  to  Jim,  "  Who  is  that  old  woman?  " 

"Old  woman?  Why,  she  ain't  a  day  over 
thirty,  Mis'  Dundy  ain't." 

Annie  looked  at  her  husband  blankly. 
But  he  was  already  talking  of  something 
else,  and  she  asked  no  more  about  the 
woman,  though  all  the  way  along  the  road 
the  face  seemed  to  follow  her.  It  might 
have  been  this  that  caused  the  tightening 
about  her  heart.  For  some  way  her  vivacity 
had  gone ;  and  the  rest  of  the  ride  she  asked 
no  questions,  but  sat  looking  straight  before 
her  at  the  northward  stretching  road,  with 
eyes  that  felt  rather  than  saw  the  brown, 


Jim  Lancy's  Waterloo  45 

bare  undulations,  rising  every  now  and  then 
clean  to  the  sky ;  at  the  side,  little  famished- 
looking  houses,  unacquainted  with  paint, 
disorderly  yards,  and  endless  reaches  of 
furrowed  ground,  where  in  summer  the  corn 
had  waved. 

The  horses  needed  no  indication  of  the 
line  to  make  them  turn  up  a  smooth  bit  of 
road  that  curved  away  neatly  'mid  the  ragged 
grasses.  At  the  end  of  it,  in  a  clump  of 
puny  scrub  oaks,  stood  a  square  little  house, 
in  uncorniced  simplicity,  with  blank,  uncur- 
tained windows  staring  out  at  Annie,  and  for 
a  moment  her  eyes,  blurred  with  the  cold, 
seemed  to  see  in  one  of  them  the  despairing 
face  of  the  woman  with  the  wisps  of  faded 
hair  blowing  about  her  face. 

"Well,  what  do  you  think  of  it?"  Jim 
cried,  heartily,  swinging  her  down  from  her 
high  seat,  and  kissing  her  as  he  did  so. 
"  This  is  your  home,  my  girl,  and  you  are  as 
welcome  to  it  as  you  would  be  to  a  palace, 
if  I  could  give  it  to  you." 

Annie  put  up  her  hands  to  hide  the  trem- 
bling of  her  lips ;  and  she  let  Jim  see  there 
were  tears  in  her  eyes  as  an  apology  for  not 


46  A  Mountain  Woman 

replying.  The  young  man  with  the  red  hair 
took  away  the  horses,  and  Jim,  with  his  arm 
around  his  wife's  waist,  ran  toward  the  house 
and  threw  open  the  door  for  her  to  enter. 
The  intense  heat  of  two  great  stoves  struck 
in  their  faces  ;  and  Annie  saw  the  big  burner, 
erected  in  all  its  black  hideousness  in  the 
middle  of  the  front  room,  like  a  sort  of 
household  hoodoo,  to  be  constantly  propi- 
tiated, like  the  gods  of  Greece ;  and  in  the 
kitchen,  the  new  range,  with  a  distracted 
tea-kettle  leaping  on  it,  as  if  it  would  like 
to  loose  its  fetters  and  race  away  over  the 
prairie  after  its  cousin,  the  locomotive. 

It  was  a  house  of  four  rooms,  and  a 
glance  revealed  the  fact  that  it  had  been 
provided  with  the  necessaries. 

"  I  think  we  can  be  very  comfortable 
here,"  said  Jim,  rather  doubtfully. 

Annie  saw  she  must  make  some  response. 
"  I  am  sure  we  can  be  more  than  comfort- 
able, Jim,"  she  replied.  "  We  can  be  happy. 
Show  me,  if  you  please,  where  my  room 
is.  I  must  hang  my  cloak  up  in  the  right 
place  so  that  I  shall  feel  as  if  I  were  getting 
settled." 


Jim  Lancy's  Waterloo  47 

It  was  enough.  Jim  had  no  longer  any 
doubts.  He  felt  sure  they  were  going  to  be 
happy  ever  afterward. 

It  was  Annie  who  got  the  first  meal ;  she 
insisted  on  it,  though  both  the  men  wanted 
her  to  rest.  And  Jim  had  n't  the  heart  to 
tell  her  that,  as  a  general  thing,  it  would 
not  do  to  put  two  eggs  in  the  corn-cake, 
and  that  the  beafsteak  was  a  great  luxury. 
When  he  saw  her  about  to  break  an  egg  for 
the  coffee,  however,  he  interfered. 

"  The  shells  of  the  ones  you  used  for  the 
cake  will  settle  the  coffee  just  as  well,"  he 
said.  "  You  see  we  have  to  be  very  careful 
of  eggs  out  here  at  this  season." 

"Oh!  Will  the  shells  really  settle  it? 
This  is  what  you  must  call  prairie  lore. 
I  suppose  out  here  we  find  out  what  the 
real  relations  of  invention  and  necessity 
are  — eh?" 

Jim  laughed  disproportionately.  He 
thought  her  wonderfully  witty.  And  he 
and  the  help  ate  so  much  that  Annie 
opened  her  eyes.  She  had  thought  there 
would  be  enough  left  for  supper.  But 
there  was  nothing  left. 


48  A  Mountain  Woman 

For  the  next  two  weeks  Jim  was  able  to  be 
much  with  her ;  and  they  amused  themselves 
by  decorating  the  house  with  the  bright 
curtainings  that  Annie  had  brought,  and 
putting  up  shelves  for  a  few  pieces  of  china. 
She  had  two  or  three  pictures,  also,  which 
had  come  from  her  room  in  her  old  home, 
and  some  of  those  useless  dainty  things  with 
which  some  women  like  to  litter  the  room. 

"  Most  folks,"  Jim  explained,  "  have  to  be 
content  with  one  fire,  and  sit  in  the  kitchen ; 
but  I  thought,  as  this  was  our  honeymoon, 
we  would  put  on  some  lugs." 

Annie  said  nothing  then ;  but  a  day  or 
two  after  she  ventured,  — 

"  Perhaps  it  would  be  as  well  now,  dear, 
if  we  kept  in  the  kitchen.  I  '11  keep  it  as 
bright  and  pleasant  as  I  can.  And,  any- 
way, you  can  be  more  about  with  me  when 
I  'm  working  then.  We  '11  lay  a  fire  in  the 
front-room  stove,  so  that  we  can  light  it  if 
anybody  comes.  We  can  just  as  well  save 
that  much." 

Jim  looked  up  brightly.  "  All  right,"  he 
said.  "  You  're  a  sensible  little  woman. 
You  see,  every  cent  makes  a  difference. 


Jim  Lancy's  Waterloo  49 

And  I  want  to  be  able  to  pay  off  five 
hundred  dollars  of  that  mortgage  this 
year." 

So,  after  that,  they  sat  in  the  kitchen ;  and 
the  fire  was  laid  in  the  front  room,  against 
the  coming  of  company.  But  no  one  came, 
and  it  remained  unlighted. 

Then  the  season  began  to  show  signs  of 
opening,  —  bleak  signs,  hardly  recognizable 
to  Annie ;  and  after  that  Jim  was  not  much 
in  the  house.  The  weeks  wore  on,  and 
spring  came  at  last,  dancing  over  the  hills. 
The  ground-birds  began  building,  and  at 
four  each  morning  awoke  Annie  with  their 
sylvan  opera.  The  creek  that  ran  just  at 
the  north  of  the  house  worked  itself  into  a 
fury  and  blustered  along  with  much  noise 
toward  the  great  Platte  which,  miles  away, 
wallowed  in  its  vast  sandy  bed.  The  hills 
flushed  from  brown  to  yellow,  and  from 
mottled  green  to  intensest  emerald,  and  in 
the  superb  air  all  the  winds  of  heaven 
seemed  to  meet  and  frolic  with  laughter 
and  song. 

Sometimes  the  mornings  were  so  beauti- 
ful that,  the  men  being  afield  and  Annie  all 
4 


50  A  Mountain  Woman 

alone,  she  gave  herself  up  to  an  ecstasy  and 
kneeled  by  the  little  wooden  bench  outside 
the  door,  to  say,  "  Father,  I  thank  Thee," 
and  then  went  about  her  work  with  all  the 
poem  of  nature  rhyming  itself  over  and  over 
in  her  heart. 

It  was  on  such  a  day  as  this  that  Mrs. 
Dundy  kept  her  promise  and  came  over  to 
see  if  the  young  housekeeper  needed  any  of 
the  advice  she  had  promised  her.  She  had 
walked,  because  none  of  the  horses  could  be 
spared.  It  had  got  so  warm  now  that  the 
fire  in  the  kitchen  heated  the  whole  house 
sufficiently,  and  Annie  had  the  rooms  clean 
to  exquisiteness.  Mrs.  Dundy  looked  about 
with  envious  eyes. 

"  How  lovely !  "  she  said. 

"Do  you  think  so?"  cried  Annie,  in  sur- 
prise. "  I  like  it,  of  course,  because  it  is 
home,  but  I  don't  see  how  you  could  call 
anything  here  lovely." 

"  Oh,  you  don't  understand,"  her  visitor 
went  on.  "  It 's  lovely  because  it  looks  so 
happy.  Some  of  us  have — well,  kind  o' 
lost  our  grip." 

"  It 's  easy   to  do  that   if  you  don't  feel 


Jim  Lancy's  Waterloo  51 

well,"  Annie  remarked  sympathetically.  "  I 
have  n't  felt  as  well  as  usual  myself,  lately. 
And  I  do  get  lonesome  and  wonder  what 
good  it  does  to  fix  up  every  day  when  there 
is  no  one  to  see.  But  that  is  all  nonsense, 
and  I  put  it  out  of  my  head." 

She  smoothed  out  the  clean  lawn  apron 
with  delicate  touch.  Mrs.  Dundy  followed 
the  movement  with  her  eyes. 

"  Oh,  my  dear,"  she  cried,  "  you  don't 
know  nothin'  about  it  yet!  But  you  will 
know  !  You  will !  "  and  those  restless,  hot 
eyes  of  hers  seemed  to  grow  more  restless 
and  more  hot  as  they  looked  with  infinite 
pity  at  the  young  woman  before  her. 

Annie  thought  of  these  words  often  as  the 
summer  came  on,  and  the  heat  grew.  Jim 
was  seldom  to  be  seen  now.  He  was  up  at 
four  each  morning,  and  the  last  chore  was 
not  completed  till  nine  at  night.  Then  he 
threw  himself  in  bed  and  lay  there  log-like 
till  dawn.  He  was  too  weary  to  talk  much, 
and  Annie,  with  her  heart  aching  for  his 
fatigue,  forbore  to  speak  to  him.  She 
cooked  the  most  strengthening  things  she 
could,  and  tried  always  to  look  fresh  and 


52  A  Mountain  Woman 

pleasant  when  he  came  in.  But  she  often 
thought  her  pains  were  in  vain,  for  he  hardly 
rested  his  sunburned  eyes  on  her.  His  skin 
got  so  brown  that  his  face  was  strangely 
changed,  especially  as  he  no  longer  had 
time  to  shave,  and  had  let  a  rough  beard 
straggle  over  his  cheeks  and  chin.  On 
Sundays  Annie  would  have  liked  to  go  to 
church,  but  the  horses  were  too  tired  to  be 
taken  out,  and  she  did  not  feel  well  enough 
to  walk  far ;  besides,  Jim  got  no  particular 
good  out  of  walking  over  the  hills  unless 
he  had  a  plough  in  his  hand. 

Harvest  came  at  length,  and  the  crop  was 
good.  There  were  any  way  from  three  to 
twenty  men  at  the  house  then,  and  Annie 
cooked  for  all  of  them.  Jim  had  tried  to 
get  some  one  to  help  her,  but  he  had  not 
succeeded.  Annie  strove  to  be  brave,  re- 
membering that  farm-women  all  over  the 
country  were  working  in  similar  fashion. 
But  in  spite  of  all  she  could  do,  the  days 
got  to  seem  like  nightmares,  and  sleep  be- 
tween was  but  a  brief  pause  in  which  she  was 
always  dreaming  of  water,  and  thinking  that 
she  was  stooping  to  put  fevered  lips  to  a 


Jim  Lancy's  Waterloo  53 

running  brook.  Some  of  these  men  were 
very  disgusting  to  Annie.  Their  manners 
were  as  bad  as  they  could  well  be,  and  a 
coarse  word  came  naturally  to  their  lips. 

"To  be  master  of  the  soil,  that  is  one 
thing/'  said  she  to  herself  in  sickness  of 
spirit ;  "  but  to  be  the  slave  of  it  is  another. 
These  men  seem  to  have  got  their  souls  all 
covered  with  muck."  She  noticed  that 
they  had  no  idea  of  amusement.  They  had 
never  played  anything.  They  did  not  even 
care  for  base-ball.  Their  idea  of  happiness 
appeared  to  be  to  do  nothing ;  and  there  was 
a  good  part  of  the  year  in  which  they  were 
happy,  —  for  these  were  not  for  the  most 
part  men  owning  farms;  they  were  men 
who  hired  out  to  help  the  farmer.  A  good 
many  of  them  had  been  farmers  at  one  time 
and  another,  but  they  had  failed.  They  all 
talked  politics  a  great  deal,  —  politics  and  rail- 
roads. Annie  had  not  much  patience  with 
it  all.  She  had  great  confidence  in  the 
course  of  things.  She  believed  that  in  this 
country  all  men  have  a  fair  chance.  So 
when  it  came  about  that  the  corn  and  the 
wheat,  which  had  been  raised  with  such 


54  A  Mountain  Woman 

incessant  toil,  brought  them  no  money,  but 
only  a  loss,  Annie  stood  aghast. 

"  I  said  the  rates  were  ruinous,"  Jim  said 
to  her  one  night,  after  it  was  all  over,  and 
he  had  found  out  that  the  year's  slavish 
work  had  brought  him  a  loss  of  three 
hundred  dollars ;  "  it 's  been  a  conspiracy 
from  the  first.  The  price  of  corn  is  all 
right.  But  by  the  time  we  set  it  down  in 
Chicago  we  are  out  eighteen  cents  a  bushel. 
It  means  ruin.  What  are  we  going  to  do? 
Here  we  had  the  best  crop  we  Ve  had  for 
years  —  but  what 's  the  use  of  talking ! 
They  have  us  in  their  grip." 

"  I  don't  see  how  it  is,"  Annie  protested. 
"  I  should  think  it  would  be  for  the  inter- 
est of  the  roads  to  help  the  people  to  be  as 
prosperous  as  possible." 

"  Oh,  we  can't  get  out !  And  we  're 
bound  to  stay  and  raise  grain.  And  they  're 
bound  to  cart  it.  And  that 's  all  there  is  to 
it.  They  force  us  to  stand  every  loss,  even 
to  the  shortage  that  is  made  in  transportation. 
The  railroad  companies  own  the  elevators, 
and  they  have  the  cinch  on  us.  Our  grain 
is  at  their  mercy.  God  knows  how  I  'm 


Jim  Lancy's  Waterloo  55 

going  to  raise  that  interest.  As  for  the  five 
hundred  we  were  going  to  pay  on  the  mort- 
gage this  year,  Annie,  we  're  not  in  it." 

Autumn  was  well  set  in  by  this  time,  and 
the  brilliant  cold  sky  hung  over  the  prairies 
as  young  and  fresh  as  if  the  world  were  not 
old  and  tired.  Annie  no  longer  could  look 
as  trim  as  when  she  first  came  to  the  little 
house.  Her  pretty  wedding  garments  were 
beginning  to  be  worn  and  there  was  no 
money  for  more.  Jim  would  not  play  chess 
now  of  evenings.  He  was  forever  writing 
articles  for  the  weekly  paper  in  the  adjoin- 
ing town.  They  talked  of  running  him  for 
the  state  legislature,  and  he  was  anxious 
for  the  nomination. 

"  I  think  I  might  be  able  to  stand  it  if  I 
could  fight  'em  !  "  he  declared ;  "  but  to  sit 
here  idle,  knowing  that  I  have  been  cheated 
out  of  my  year's  work,  just  as  much  as  if  I 
had  been  knocked  down  on  the  road  and 
the  money  taken  from  me,  is  enough  to 
send  me  to  the  asylum  with  a  strait-jacket 
on!" 

Life  grew  to  take  on  tragic  aspects.  Annie 
used  to  find  herself  wondering  if  anywhere 


56  A  Mountain  Woman 

in  the  world  there  were  people  with  light 
hearts.  For  her  there  was  no  longer  antici- 
pation of  joy,  or  present  companionship,  or 
any  divertisement  in  the  whole  world.  Jim 
read  books  which  she  did  not  understand, 
and  with  a  few  of  his  friends,  who  dropped 
in  now  and  then  evenings  or  Sundays,  talked 
about  these  books  in  an  excited  manner. 

She  would  go  to  her  room  to  rest,  and 
lying  there  in  the  darkness  on  the  bed, 
would  hear  them  speaking  together,  some- 
times all  at  once,  in  those  sternly  vindictive 
tones  men  use  when  there  is  revolt  in  their 
souls. 

"  It  is  the  government  which  is  helping 
to  impoverish  us,"  she  would  hear  Jim 
saying.  "Work  is  money.  That  is  to 
say,  it  is  the  active  form  of  money.  The 
wealth  of  a  country  is  estimated  by  its 
power  of  production.  And  its  power  of 
production  means  work.  It  means  there 
are  so  many  men  with  so  much  capacity. 
Now  the  government  owes  it  to  these  men 
to  have  money  enough  to  pay  them  for 
their  work ;  and  if  there  is  not  enough 
money  in  circulation  to  pay  to  each  man  for 


Jim  Lancy's  Waterloo  57 

his  honest  and  necessary  work,  then  I  say 
that  government  is  in  league  with  crime. 
It  is  trying  to  make  defaulters  of  us.  It  has 
a  hundred  ways  of  cheating  us.  When  I 
bought  this  farm  and  put  the  mortgage  on 
it,  a  day's  work  would  bring  twice  the 
results  it  will  now.  That  is  to  say,  the 
total  at  the  end  of  the  year  showed  my 
profits  to  be  twice  what  they  would  be 
now,  even  if  the  railway  did  not  stand  in 
the  way  to  rob  us  of  more  than  we  earn. 
So  that  it  will  take  just  twice  as  many 
days'  work  now  to  pay  off  this  mortgage 
as  it  would  have  done  at  the  time  it  was 
contracted.  It 's  a  conspiracy,  I  tell  you  ! 
Those  Eastern  capitalists  make  a  science  of 
ruining  us." 

He  got  more  eloquent  as  time  went  on, 
and  Annie,  who  had  known  him  first  as 
rather  a  careless  talker,  was  astonished  at 
the  boldness  of  his  language.  But  conver- 
sation was  a  lost  art  with  him.  He  no 
longer  talked.  He  harangued. 

In  the  early  spring  Annie's  baby  was 
born,  —  a  little  girl  with  a  nervous  cry,  who 
never  slept  long  at  a  time,  and  who  seemed 


58  A  Mountain  Woman 

to  wail  merely  from  distaste  at  living.  It 
was  Mrs.  Dundy  who  came  over  to  look 
after  the  house  till  Annie  got  able  to  do  so. 
Her  eyes  had  that  fever  in  them,  as  ever. 
She  talked  but  little,  but  her  touch  on 
Annie's  head  was  more  eloquent  than  words. 
One  day  Annie  asked  for  the  glass,  and 
Mrs.  Dundy  gave  it  to  her.  She  looked  in 
it  a  long  time.  The  color  was  gone  from 
her  cheeks,  and  about  her  mouth  there  was 
an  ugly  tightening.  But  her  eyes  flashed 
and  shone  with  that  same  —  no,  no,  it  could 
not  be  that  in  her  face  also  was  coming  the 
look  of  half-madness !  She  motioned  Mrs. 
Dundy  to  come  to  her. 

"  You  knew  it  was  coming,"  she  said, 
brokenly,  pointing  to  the  reflection  in  the 
glass.  "  That  first  day,  you  knew  how  it 
would  be." 

Mrs.  Dundy  took  the  glass  away  with  a 
gentle  hand. 

"  How  could  I  help  knowing?"  she  said 
simply.  She  went  into  the  next  room,  and 
when  she  returned  Annie  noticed  that  the 
handkerchief  stuck  in  her  belt  was  wet,  as 
if  it  had  been  wept  on. 


Jim  Lancy's  Waterloo  59 

A  woman  cannot  stay  long  away  from 
her  home  on  a  farm  at  planting  time,  even 
if  it  is  a  case  of  life  and  death.  Mrs.  Dundy 
had  to  go  home,  and  Annie  crept  about 
her  work  with  the  wailing  baby  in  her  arms. 
The  house  was  often  disorderly  now;  but 
it  could  not  be  helped.  The  baby  had  to 
be  cared  for.  It  fretted  so  much  that  Jim 
slept  apart  in  the  mow  of  the  barn,  that  his 
sleep  might  not  be  disturbed.  It  was  a 
pleasant,  dim  place,  full  of  sweet  scents,  and 
he  liked  to  be  there  alone.  Though  he  had 
always  been  an  unusual  worker,  he  worked 
now  more  like  a  man  who  was  fighting  off 
fate,  than  a  mere  toiler  for  bread. 

The  corn  came  up  beautifully,  and  far  as 
the  eye  could  reach  around  their  home  it 
tossed  its  broad  green  leaves  with  an  ocean- 
like  swelling  of  sibilant  sound.  Jim  loved 
it  with  a  sort  of  passion.  Annie  loved  it, 
too.  Sometimes,  at  night,  when  her  fatigue 
was  unbearable,  and  her  irritation  wearing 
out  both  body  and  soul,  she  took  her  little 
one  in  her  arms  and  walked  among  the 
corn,  letting  its  rustling  soothe  the  baby  to 
sleep. 


60  A  Mountain  Woman 

The  heat  of  the  summer  was  terrible. 
The  sun  came  up  in  that  blue  sky  like  a 
curse,  and  hung  there  till  night  came  to 
comfort  the  blistering  earth.  And  one 
morning  a  terrible  thing  happened.  Annie 
was  standing  out  of  doors  in  the  shade  of 
those  miserable  little  oaks,  ironing,  when 
suddenly  a  blast  of  air  struck  her  in  the 
face,  which  made  her  look  up  startled.  For 
a  moment  she  thought,  perhaps,  there  was 
a  fire  near  in  the  grass.  But  there  was  none. 
Another  blast  came,  hotter  this  time,  and 
fifteen  minutes  later  that  wind  was  sweep- 
ing straight  across  the  plain,  burning  and 
blasting.  Annie  went  in  the  house  to  finish 
her  ironing,  and  was  working  there,  when 
she  heard  Jim's  footstep  on  the  door-sill. 
He  could  not  pale  because  of  the  tan,  but 
there  was  a  look  of  agony  and  of  anger  — 
almost  brutish  anger  —  in  his  eyes.  Then 
he  looked,  for  a  moment,  at  Annie  standing 
there  working  patiently,  and  rocking  the 
little  crib  with  one  foot,  and  he  sat  down  on 
the  door-step  and  buried  his  face  in  his 
brown  arms. 

The  wind  blew  for  three  days.     At  the 


Jim  Lancy's  Waterloo  61 

end  of  that  time  every  ear  was  withered  in 
the  stalk.  The  corn  crop  was  ruined. 

But  there  were  the  other  crops  which 
must  be  attended  to,  and  Jim  watched  those 
with  the  alertness  of  a  despairing  man ;  and 
so  harvest  came  again,  and  again  the  house 
was  filled  with  men  who  talked  their  careless 
talk,  and  who  were  not  ashamed  to  gorge 
while  this  one  woman  cooked  for  them. 
The  baby  lay  on  a  quilt  on  the  floor  in  the 
coolest  part  of  the  kitchen.  Annie  fed  it 
irregularly.  Sometimes  she  almost  forgot 
it.  As  for  its  wailing,  she  had  grown  so 
used  to  it  that  she  hardly  heard  it,  any 
more  than  she  did  the  ticking  of  the  clock. 
And  yet,  tighter  than  anything  else  in  life, 
was  the  hold  that  little  thing  had  on  her 
heart-strings.  At  night,  after  the  intermin- 
able work  had  been  finished  —  though  in 
slovenly  fashion  —  she  would  take  it  up  and 
caress  it  with  fierceness,  and  worn  as  she 
was,  would  bathe  it  and  soothe  it,  and  give 
it  warm  milk  from  the  big  tin  pail. 

"Lay  the  child  down,"  Jim  would  say 
impatiently,  while  the  men  would  tell  how 
their  wives  always  put  the  babies  on  the 


62  A  Mountain  Woman 

bed  and  let  them  cry  if  they  wanted  to. 
Annie  said  nothing,  but  she  hushed  the 
little  one  with  tender  songs. 

One  day,  as  usual,  it  lay  on  its  quilt 
while  Annie  worked.  It  was  a  terribly  busy 
morning.  She  had  risen  at  four  to  get  the 
washing  out  of  the  way  before  the  men  got 
on  hand,  and  there  were  a  dozen  loaves  of 
bread  to  bake,  and  the  meals  to  get,  and 
the  milk  to  attend  to,  and  the  chickens  and 
pigs  to  feed.  So  occupied  was  she  that  she 
never  was  able  to  tell  how  long  she  was 
gone  from  the  baby.  She  only  knew  that 
the  heat  of  her  own  body  was  so  great  that 
the  blood  seemed  to  be  pounding  at  her 
ears,  and  she  staggered  as  she  crossed  the 
yard.  But  when  she  went  at  last  with  a 
cup  of  milk  to  feed  the  little  one,  it  lay  with 
clenched  fists  and  fixed  eyes,  and  as  she 
lifted  it,  a  last  convulsion  laid  it  back  breath- 
less, and  its  heart  had  ceased  to  beat. 

Annie  ran  with  it  to  her  room,  and  tried 
such  remedies  as  she  had.  But  nothing 
could  keep  the  chill  from  creeping  over  the 
wasted  little  form,  —  not  even  the  heat  of 
the  day,  not  even  the  mother's  agonized 


Jim  Lancy's  Waterloo  63 

embrace.  Then,  suddenly,  Annie  looked 
at  the  clock.  It  was  time  to  get  the  dinner. 
She  laid  the  piteous  tiny  shape  straight  on 
the  bed,  threw  a  sheet  over  it,  and  went 
back  to  the  weltering  kitchen  to  cook  for 
those  men,  who  came  at  noon  and  who  must 
be  fed  —  who  must  be  fed. 

When  they  were  all  seated  at  the  table, 
Jim  among  them,  and  she  had  served  them, 
she  said,  standing  at  the  head  of  the  table, 
with  her  hands  on  her  hips :  — 

"  I  don't  suppose  any  of  you  have  time 
to  do  anything  about  it ;  but  I  thought  you 
might  like  to  know  that  the  baby  is  dead. 
I  would  n't  think  of  asking  you  to  spare  the 
horses,  for  I  know  they  have  to  rest.  But 
I  thought,  if  you  could  make  out  on  a  cold 
supper,  that  I  would  go  to  the  town  for  a 
coffin." 

There  was  satire  in  the  voice  that  stung 
even  through  the  dull  perceptions  of  these 
men,  and  Jim  arose  with  a  cry  and  went  to 
the  room  where  his  dead  baby  lay. 

About  two  months  after  this  Annie  in- 
sisted that  she  must  go  home  to  Illinois. 
Jim  protested  in  a  way. 


64  A  Mountain  Woman 

"  You  know,  I  'd  like  to  send  you,"  he 
said ;  "  but  I  don't  see  where  the  money  is 
to  come  from.  And  since  I  've  got  this 
nomination,  I  want  to  run  as  well  as  I  can. 
My  friends  expect  me  to  do  my  best  for 
them.  It's  a  duty,  you  know,  and  nothing 
less,  for  a  few  men,  like  me,  to  get  in  the 
legislature.  We're  going  to  get  a  railroad 
bill  through  this  session  that  will  straighten 
out  a  good  many  things.  Be  patient  a  little 
longer,  Annie." 

"  I  want  to  go  home,"  was  the  only  reply 
he  got.  "  You  must  get  the  money,  some 
way,  for  me  to  go  home  with." 

"  I  have  n't  paid  a  cent  of  interest  yet," 
he  cried  angrily.  "  I  don't  see  what  you 
mean  by  being  so  unreasonable !  " 

"  You  must  get  the  money,  some  way," 
she  reiterated. 

He  did  not  speak  to  her  for  a  week,  ex- 
cept when  he  was  obliged  to.  But  she  did 
not  seem  to  mind;  and  he  gave  her  the 
money.  He  took  her  to  the  train  in  the 
little  wagon  that  had  met  her  when  she  first 
came.  At  the  station,  some  women  were 
gossiping  excitedly,  and  Annie  asked  what 
they  were  saying. 


Jim  Lancy's  Waterloo  65 

"It's  Mis'  Dundy,"  they  said.  "She's 
been  sent  to  th'  insane  asylum  at  Lincoln. 
She  's  gone  stark  mad.  All  she  said  on  the 
way  out  was,  '  Th'  butter  won't  come  !  Th' 
butter  won't  come  ! ' '  Then  they  laughed  a 
little  —  a  strange  laugh ;  and  Annie  thought 
of  a  drinking-song  she  had  once  heard, 
"  Here 's  to  the  next  who  dies." 

Ten  days  after  this  Jim  got  a  letter  from 
her.  "  I  am  never  coming  back,  Jim,"  it 
said.  "  It  is  hopeless.  I  don't  think  I 
would  mind  standing  still  to  be  shot  down 
if  there  was  any  good  in  it.  But  I  'm  not 
going  back  there  to  work  harder  than  any 
slave  for  those  money-loaners  and  the  rail- 
roads. I  guess  they  can  all  get  along  with- 
out me.  And  I  am  sure  I  can  get  along 
without  them.  I  do  not  think  this  will  make 
you  feel  very  bad.  You  have  n't  seemed 
to  notice  me  very  much  lately  when  I  've 
been  around,  and  I  do  not  think  you  will 
notice  very  much  when  I  am  gone.  I  know 
what  this  means.  I  know  I  am  breaking 
my  word  when  I  leave  you.  But  remember, 
it  is  not  you  I  leave,  but  the  soil,  Jim  !  I 
will  not  be  its  slave  any  longer.  If  you 

5 


66  A  Mountain  Woman 

care  to  come  for  me  here,  and  live  another 
life  —  but  no,  there  would  be  no  use.  Our 
love,  like  our  toil,  has  been  eaten  up  by 
those  rapacious  acres.  Let  us  say  good- 
by." 

Jim  sat  all  night  with  this  letter  in  his 
hand.  Sometimes  he  dozed  heavily  in  his 
chair.  But  he  did  not  go  to  bed ;  and  the 
next  morning  he  hitched  up  his  horses  and 
rode  to  town.  He  went  to  the  bank  which 
held  his  notes. 

"  I  '11  confess  judgment  as  soon  as  you 
like,"  he  said.  "  It 's  all  up  with  me." 

It  was  done  as  quickly  as  the  law  would 
allow.  And  the  things  in  the  house  were 
sold  by  auction.  All  the  farmers  were  there 
with  their  wives.  It  made  quite  an  outing 
for  them.  Jim  moved  around  impassively, 
and  chatted,  now  and  then,  with  some  of 
the  men  about  what  the  horses  ought  to 
bring. 

The  auctioneer  was  a  clever  fellow.  Be- 
tween the  putting  up  of  the  articles,  he  sang 
comic  songs,  and  the  funnier  the  song,  the 
livelier  the  bidding  that  followed.  The 
horses  brought  a  decent  price,  and  the  ma- 


Jim  Lancy's  Waterloo  67 

chinery  a  disappointing  one ;  and  then,  after 
a  delicious  snatch  about  Nell  who  rode  the 
sway-backed  mare  at  the  county  fair,  he 
got  down  to  the  furniture,  —  the  furniture 
which  Jim  had  bought  when  he  was  expect- 
ing Annie. 

Jim  was  walking  around  with  his  hands 
in  his  pockets,  looking  unconcerned,  and, 
as  the  furniture  began  to  go  off,  he  came 
and  sat  down  in  the  midst  of  it.  Every 
one  noticed  his  indifference.  Some  of  them 
said  that  after  all  he  could  n't  have  been 
very  ambitious.  He  did  n't  seem  to  take 
his  failure  much  to  heart.  Every  one  was 
concentrating  attention  on  the  cooking- 
stove,  when  Jim  leaned  forward,  quickly, 
over  a  little  wicker  work-stand. 

There  was  a  bit  of  unfinished  sewing  there, 
and  it  fell  out  as  he  lifted  the  cover.  It  was 
a  baby's  linen  shirt.  Jim  let  it  lie,  and  then 
lifted  from  its  receptacle  a  silver  thimble. 
He  put  it  in  his  vest-pocket. 

The  campaign  came  on  shortly  after  this, 
and  Jim  Lancy  was  defeated.  "  I  'm  going 
to  Omaha,"  said  he  to  the  station-master, 
"  and  I  Ve  got  just  enough  to  buy  a  ticket 


68  A  Mountain  Woman 

with.     There 's  a  kind  of  satisfaction  in  giv- 
ing the  last  cent  I  have  to  the  railroads." 

Two  months  later,  a  "  plain  drunk  "  was 
registered  at  the  station  in  Nebraska's  me- 
tropolis. When  they  searched  him  they 
found  nothing  in  his  pockets  but  a  silver 
thimble,  and  Joe  Benson,  the  policeman 
who  had  brought  in  the  "drunk,"  gave  it 
to  the  matron,  with  his  compliments.  But 
she,  when  no  one  noticed,  went  softly  to 
where  the  man  was  sleeping,  and  slipped 
it  back  into  his  pocket,  with  a  sigh.  For 
she  knew  somehow  —  as  women  do  know 
things  —  that  he  had  not  stolen  that  thimble. 


The  Three  Johns 


The  Three  Johns 

¥ 

THE  equinoctial  line  itself  is  not  more 
imaginary  than  the  line  which  divided 
the  estates  of  the  three  Johns.  The  herds 
of  the  three  Johns  roamed  at  will,  and 
nibbled  the  short  grass  far  and  near  without 
let  or  hindrance ;  and  the  three  Johns  them- 
selves were  utterly  indifferent  as  to  boun- 
dary lines.  Each  of  them  had  filed  his 
application  at  the  office  of  the  government 
land-agent ;  each  was  engaged  in  the  tedious 
task  of  "  proving  up ;  "  and  each  owned 
one-third  of  the  L-shaped  cabin  which  stood 
at  the  point  where  the  three  ranches  touched. 
The  hundred  and  sixty  acres  which  would 
have  completed  this  quadrangle  had  not 
yet  been  "taken  up." 

The  three  Johns  were  not  anxious  to  have 
a  neighbor.  Indeed,  they  had  made  up 
their  minds  that  if  one  appeared  on  that 


72  A  Mountain  Woman 

adjoining  "  hun'erd  an'  sixty,"  it  would  go 
hard  with  him.  For  they  did  not  deal  in 
justice  very  much  —  the  three  Johns.  They 
considered  it  effete.  It  belonged  in  the 
East  along  with  other  outgrown  supersti- 
tions. And  they  had  given  it  out  widely 
that  it  would  be  healthier  for  land  applicants 
to  give  them  elbow-room.  It  took  a  good 
many  miles  of  sunburnt  prairie  to  afford 
elbow-room  for  the  three  Johns. 

They  met  by  accident  in  Hamilton  at  the 
land-office.  John  Henderson,  fresh  from 
Cincinnati,  manifestly  unused  to  the  ways 
of  the  country,  looked  at  John  Gillispie  with 
a  lurking  smile.  Gillispie  wore  a  sombrero, 
fresh,  white,  and  expansive.  His  boots  had 
high  heels,  and  were  of  elegant  leather  and 
finely  arched  at  the  instep.  His  corduroys 
disappeared  in  them  half-way  up  the  thigh. 
About  his  waist  a  sash  of  blue  held  a  laced 
shirt  of  the  same  color  in  place.  Hender- 
son puffed  at  his  cigarette,  and  continued 
to  look  a  trifle  quizzical. 

Suddenly  Gillispie  walked  up  to  him  and 
said,  in  a  voice  of  complete  suavity,  "  Damn 
yeh,  smoke  a  pipe  I " 


The  Three  Johns  73 

"Eh?  "  said  Henderson,  stupidly. 

"  Smoke  a  pipe,"  said  the  other.  "  That 
thing  you  have  is  bad  for  your  complexion." 

"  I  can  take  care  of  my  complexion,"  said 
Henderson,  firmly. 

The  two  looked  each  other  straight  in  the 
eye. 

"  You  don't  go  on  smoking  that  thing  till 
you  have  apologized  for  that  grin  you  had 
on  your  phiz  a  moment  ago." 

"  I  laugh  when  I  please,  and  I  smoke 
what  I  please,"  said  Henderson,  hotly,  his 
face  flaming  as  he  realized  that  he  was  in 
for  his  first  "  row." 

That  was  how  it  began.  How  it  would 
have  ended  is  not  known  —  probably  there 
would  have  been  only  one  John  —  if  it  had 
not  been  for  the  almost  miraculous  appear- 
ance at  this  moment  of  the  third  John.  For 
just  then  the  two  belligerents  found  them- 
selves prostrate,  their  pistols  only  half-cocked, 
and  between  them  stood  a  man  all  gnarled 
and  squat,  like  one  of  those  wind-torn  oaks 
which  grow  on  the  arid  heights.  He  was 
no  older  than  the  others,  but  the  lines  in 
his  face  were  deep,  and  his  large  mouth 
twitched  as  he  said :  — 


74  A  Mountain  Woman 

"  Hold  on  here,  yeh  fools  !  There  's  too 
much  blood  in  you  to  spill.  You  '11  spile 
th'  floor,  and  waste  good  stuff.  We  need 
blood  out  here !  " 

Gillispie  bounced  to  his  feet.  Henderson 
arose  suspiciously,  keeping  his  eyes  on  his 
assailants. 

"  Oh,  get  up !  "  cried  the  intercessor. 
"  We  don't  shoot  men  hereabouts  till  they 
git  on  their  feet  in  fightin'  trim." 

"  What  do  you  know  about  what  we  do 
here?"  interrupted  Gillispie.  "This  is  the 
first  time  I  ever  saw  you  around." 

"That's  so,"  the  other  admitted.  "I'm 
just  down  from  Montana.  Came  to  take  up 
a  quarter  section.  Where  I  come  from  we 
give  men  a  show,  an'  I  thought  perhaps  yeh 
did  th'  same  here." 

"  Why,  yes,"  admitted  Gillispie,  "  we  do. 
But  I  don't  want  folks  to  laugh  too  much 
—  not  when  I  'm  around  —  unless  they  tell 
me  what  the  joke  is.  I  was  just  mentioning 
it  to  the  gentleman,"  he  added,  dryly. 

"  So  I  saw,"  said  the  other ;  "  you  're  kind 
a  emphatic  in  yer  remarks.  Yeh  ought  to 
give  the  gentleman  a  chance  to  git  used  to 


The  Three  Johns  75 

the  ways  of  th'  country.  He  '11  be  as  tough 
as  th'  rest  of  us  if  you  '11  give  him  a  chance. 
I  kin  see  it  in  him." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Henderson.  "  I  'm 
glad  you  do  me  justice.  I  wish  you  would  n't 
let  daylight  through  me  till  I  Ve  had  a  chance 
to  get  my  quarter  section.  I  'm  going  to 
be  one  of  you,  either  as  a  live  man  or  a 
corpse.  But  I  prefer  a  hundred  and  sixty 
acres  of  land  to  six  feet  of  it." 

"  There,  now !  "  triumphantly  cried  the 
squat  man.  "  Did  n't  I  tell  yeh  ?  Give  him 
a  show !  'T  ain't  no  fault  of  his  that  he 's  a 
tenderfoot.  He  '11  get  over  that." 

Gillispie  shook  hands  with  first  one  and 
then  the  other  of  the  men.  "  It 's  a  square 
deal  from  this  on,"  he  said.  "  Come  and 
have  a  drink." 

That 's  how  they  met  —  John  Henderson, 
John  Gillispie,  and  John  Waite.  And  a  week 
later  they  were  putting  up  a  shanty  together 
for  common  use,  which  overlapped  each  of 
their  reservations,  and  satisfied  the  law  with 
its  sociable  subterfuge. 

The  life  was  n't  bad,  Henderson  decided ; 
and  he  adopted  all  the  ways  of  the  country 


j6  A  Mountain  Woman 

in  an  astonishingly  short  space  of  time. 
There  was  a  freedom  about  it  all  which  was 
certainly  complete.  The  three  alternated 
in  the  night  watch.  Once  a  week  one  of 
them  went  to  town  for  provisions.  They 
were  not  good  at  the  making  of  bread,  so 
they  contented  themselves  with  hot  cakes. 
Then  there  was  salt  pork  for  a  staple,  and 
prunes.  They  slept  in  straw-lined  bunks, 
with  warm  blankets  for  a  covering.  They 
made  a  point  of  bringing  reading-matter 
back  from  town  every  week,  and  there  were 
always  cards  to  fall  back  on,  and  Waite  sang 
songs  for  them  with  natural  dramatic  talent. 
Nevertheless,  in  spite  of  their  content- 
ment, none  of  them  was  sorry  when  the 
opportunity  offered  for  going  to  town. 
There  was  always  a  bit  of  stirring  gossip  to 
be  picked  up,  and  now  and  then  there  was 
a  "show"  at  the  "  opera-house,"  in  which, 
it  is  almost  unnecessary  to  say,  no  opera 
had  ever  been  sung.  Then  there  was  the 
hotel,  at  which  one  not  only  got  good  fare, 
but  a  chat  with  the  three  daughters  of  Jim 
O'Neal,  the  proprietor  —  girls  with  the  acci- 
dent of  two  Irish  parents,  who  were,  not- 


The  Three  Johns  77 

withstanding,  as  typically  American  as  they 
well  could  be.  A  half-hour's  talk  with  these 
cheerful  young  women  was  all  the  more  to 
be  desired  for  the  reason  that  within  riding 
distance  of  the  three  Johns'  ranch  there  were 
only  two  other  women.  One  was  Minerva 
Fitch,  who  had  gone  out  from  Michigan 
accompanied  by  an  oil-stove  and  a  knowl- 
edge of  the  English  grammar,  with  the 
intention  of  teaching  school,  but  who  had 
been  unable  to  carry  these  good  intentions 
into  execution  for  the  reason  that  there  were 
no  children  to  teach,  —  at  least,  none  but 
Bow-legged  Joe.  He  was  a  sad  little  fellow, 
who  looked  like  a  prairie-dog,  and  who  had 
very  much  the  same  sort  of  an  outlook  on  life. 
The  other  woman  was  the  brisk  and  efficient 
wife  of  Mr.  Bill  Deems,  of  "  Missourah." 
Mr.  Deems  had  never  in  his  life  done  any- 
thing, not  even  so  much  as  bring  in  a  basket 
of  buffalo  chips  to  supply  the  scanty  fire. 
That  is  to  say,  he  had  done  nothing  strictly 
utilitarian.  Yet  he  filled  his  place.  He  was 
the  most  accomplished  story-teller  in  the 
whole  valley,  and  this  accomplishment  of  his 
was  held  in  as  high  esteem  as  the  improvisa- 


78  A  Mountain  Woman 

tions  of  a  Welsh  minstrel  were  among  his 
reverencing  people.  His  wife  alone  depre- 
cated his  skill,  and  interrupted  his  spirited 
narratives  with  sarcastic  allusions  concerning 
the  empty  cupboard,  and  the  "  state  of  her 
back,"  to  which,  as  she  confided  to  any  who 
would  listen,  "  there  was  not  a  rag  fit  to  wear." 

These  two  ladies  had  not,  as  may  be 
surmised,  any  particular  attraction  for  John 
Henderson.  Truth  to  tell,  Henderson  had 
not  come  West  with  the  intention  of  lik- 
ing women,  but  rather  with  a  determina- 
tion to  see  and  think  as  little  of  them  as 
possible.  Yet  even  the  most  confirmed 
misogynist  must  admit  that  it  is  a  good 
thing  to  see  a  woman  now  and  then,  and  for 
this  reason  Henderson  found  it  amusing  to 
converse  with  the  amiable  Misses  O'Neal. 
At  twenty-five  one  cannot  be  unyielding  in 
one's  avoidance  of  the  sex. 

Henderson,  with  his  pony  at  a  fine  lope, 
was  on  his  way  to  town  one  day,  in  that 
comfortable  frame  of  mind  adduced  by  an 
absence  of  any  ideas  whatever,  when  he 
suddenly  became  conscious  of  a  shiver  that 
seemed  to  run  from  his  legs  to  the  pony, 


The  Three  Johns  79 

and  back  again.  The  animal  gave  a  startled 
leap,  and  lifted  his  ears.  There  was  a  stir- 
ring in  the  coarse  grasses;  the  sky,  which 
a  moment  before  had  been  like  sapphire, 
dulled  with  an  indescribable  grayness. 

Then  came  a  little  singing  afar  off,  as  if 
from  a  distant  convocation  of  cicadae,  and 
before  Henderson  could  guess  what  it  meant, 
a  cloud  of  dust  was  upon  him,  blinding  and 
bewildering,  pricking  with  sharp  particles 
at  eyes  and  nostrils.  The  pony  was  an  ugly 
fellow,  and  when  Henderson  felt  him  put  his 
forefeet  together,  he  knew  what  that  meant, 
and  braced  himself  for  the  struggle.  But  it 
was  useless;  he  had  not  yet  acquired  the 
knack  of  staying  on  the  back  of  a  bucking 
bronco,  and  the  next  moment  he  was  on 
the  ground,  and  around  him  whirled  that 
saffron  chaos  of  dust.  The  temperature 
lowered  every  moment.  Henderson  in- 
stinctively felt  that  this  was  but  the  begin- 
ning of  the  storm.  He  picked  himself  up 
without  useless  regrets  for  his  pony,  and 
made  his  way  on. 

The  saffron  hue  turned  to  blackness,  and 
then  out  of  the  murk  shot  a  living  green 


8o  A  Mountain  Woman 

ball  of  fire,  and  ploughed  into  the  earth. 
Then  sheets  of  water,  that  seemed  to  come 
simultaneously  from  earth  and  sky,  swept 
the  prairie,  and  in  the  midst  of  it  struggled 
Henderson,  weak  as  a  little  child,  half  bereft 
of  sense  by  the  strange  numbness  of  head 
and  dullness  of  eye.  Another  of  those  green 
balls  fell  and  burst,  as  it  actually  appeared 
to  him,  before  his  horrified  eyes,  and  the 
bellow  and  blare  of  the  explosion  made  him 
cry  out  in  a  madness  of  fright  and  physical 
pain.  In  the  illumination  he  had  seen  a 
cabin  only  a  few  feet  in  front  of  him,  and 
toward  it  he  made  frantically,  with  an  ani- 
mal's instinctive  desire  for  shelter. 

The  door  did  not  yield  at  once  to  his 
pressure,  and  in  the  panic  of  his  fear  he 
threw  his  weight  against  it.  There  was  a 
cry  from  within,  a  fall,  and  Henderson  flung 
himself  in  the  cabin  and  closed  the  door. 

In  the  dusk  of  the  storm  he  saw  a  woman 
half  prostrate.  It  was  she  whom  he  had 
pushed  from  the  door.  He  caught  the  hook 
in  its  staple,  and  turned  to  raise  her.  She 
was  not  trembling  as  much  as  he,  but,  like 
himself,  she  was  dizzy  with  the  shock  of 


The  Three  Johns  81 

the  lightning.  In  the  midst  of  all  the 
clamor  Henderson  heard  a  shrill  crying,  and 
looking  toward  the  side  of  the  room,  he 
dimly  perceived  three  tiny  forms  crouched 
in  one  of  the  bunks.  The  woman  took  the 
smallest  of  the  children  in  her  arms,  and 
kissed  and  soothed  it;  and  Henderson,  after 
he  had  thrown  a  blanket  at  the  bottom  of 
the  door  to  keep  out  the  drifting  rain,  sat 
with  his  back  to  it,  bracing  it  against  the 
wind,  lest  the  frail  staple  should  give  way. 
He  managed  some  way  to  reach  out  and  lay 
hold  of  the  other  little  ones,  and  got  them 
in  his  arms,  —  a  boy,  so  tiny  he  seemed 
hardly  human,  and  a  girl  somewhat  sturdier. 
They  cuddled  in  his  arms,  and  clutched  his 
clothes  with  their  frantic  little  hands,  and 
the  three  sat  so  while  the  earth  and  the 
heavens  seemed  to  be  meeting  in  angry 
combat. 

And  back  and  forth,  back  and  forth,  in 
the  dimness  swayed  the  body  of  the  woman, 
hushing  her  babe. 

Almost  as  suddenly  as  the  darkness  had 
fallen,  it  lifted.  The  lightning  ceased  to 
threaten,  and  almost  frolicked,  —  little  way- 
6 


82  A  Mountain  Woman 

ward  flashes  of  white  and  yellow  dancing 
in  mid-air.  The  wind  wailed  less  frequently, 
like  a  child  who  sobs  in  its  sleep.  And  at 
last  Henderson  could  make  his  voice  heard. 

"Is  there  anything  to  build  a  fire  with?" 
he  shouted.  "  The  children  are  shiver- 
ing so." 

The  woman  pointed  to  a  basket  of  buffalo 
chips  in  the  corner,  and  he  wrapped  his 
little  companions  up  in  a  blanket  while  he 
made  a  fire  in  the  cooking-stove.  The  baby 
was  sleeping  by  this  time,  and  the  woman 
began  tidying  the  cabin,  and  when  the 
fire  was  burning  brightly,  she  put  some 
coffee  on. 

"  I  wish  I  had  some  clothes  to  offer  you," 
she  said,  when  the  wind  had  subsided  suffi- 
ciently to  make  talking  possible.  "  I  'm 
afraid  you  '11  have  to  let  them  get  dry  on  you." 

"  Oh,  that 's  of  no  consequence  at  all ! 
We  're  lucky  to  get  off  with  our  lives.  I 
never  saw  anything  so  terrible.  Fancy ! 
half  an  hour  ago  it  was  summer  ;  now  it  is 
winter !  " 

"  It  seems  rather  sudden  when  you  're  not 
used  to  it,"  the  woman  admitted.  "  I  Ve 


The  Three  Johns  83 

lived  in  the  West  six  years  now ;  you  can't 
frighten  me  any  more.  We  never  die  out 
here  before  our  time  comes." 

"  You  seem  to  know  that  I  have  n't  been 
here  long,"  said  Henderson,  with  some 
chagrin. 

"  Yes,"  admitted  the  woman ;  "  you  have 
the  ear-marks  of  a  man  from  the  East." 

She  was  a  tall  woman,  with  large  blue 
eyes,  and  a  remarkable  quantity  of  yellow 
hair  braided  on  top  of  her  head.  Her  gown 
was  of  calico,  of  such  a  pattern  as  a  widow 
might  wear. 

"  I  have  n't  been  out  of  town  a  week  yet," 
she  said.  "We're  not  half  settled.  Not 
having  any  one  to  help  makes  it  harder; 
and  the  baby  is  rather  fretful." 

"  But  you  're  not  alone  with  all  these  little 
codgers?"  cried  Henderson,  in  dismay. 

The  woman  turned  toward  him  with  a  sort 
of  defiance.  "  Yes,  I  am,"  she  said  ;  "  and 
I  'm  as  strong  as  a  horse,  and  I  mean  to  get 
through  all  right.  Here  were  the  three 
children  in  my  arms,  you  may  say,  and  no 
way  to  get  in  a  cent.  I  wasn't  going  to 
stand  it  just  to  please  other  folk.  I  said, 


84  A  Mountain  Woman 

let  them  talk  if  they  want  to,  but  I  'm  going 
to  hold  down  a  claim,  and  be  accumulating 
something  while  the  children  are  getting  up 
a  bit.  Oh,  I  'm  not  afraid  !  " 

In  spite  of  this  bold  assertion  of  bravery, 
there  was  a  sort  of  break  in  her  voice.  She 
was  putting  dishes  on  the  table  as  she  talked, 
and  turned  some  ham  in  the  skillet,  and  got 
the  children  up  before  the  fire,  and  dropped 
some  eggs  in  water, —  all  with  a  rapidity  that 
bewildered  Henderson. 

"  How  long  have  you  been  alone?'*  he 
asked,  softly. 

"  Three  months  before  baby  was  born, 
and  he  's  five  months  old  now.  I  —  I  —  you 
think  I  can  get  on  here,  don't  you?  There 
was  nothing  else  to  do." 

She  was  folding  another  blanket  over  the 
sleeping  baby  now,  and  the  action  brought 
to  her  guest  the  recollection  of  a  thousand 
tender  moments  of  his  dimly  remembered 
youth. 

"  You  '11  get  on  if  we  have  anything  to  do 
with  it,"  he  cried,  suppressing  an  oath  with 
difficulty,  just  from  pure  emotion. 

And  he  told  her  about  the  three  Johns' 


The  Three  Johns  85 

ranch,  and  found  it  was  only  three  miles 
distant,  and  that  both  were  on  the  same 
road;  only  her  cabin,  having  been  put  up 
during  the  past  week,  had  of  course  been 
unknown  to  him.  So  it  ended  in  a  sort  of 
compact  that  they  were  to  help  each  other 
in  such  ways  as  they  could.  Meanwhile  the 
fire  got  genial,  and  the  coffee  filled  the  cabin 
with  its  comfortable  scent,  and  all  of  them 
ate  together  quite  merrily,  Henderson  cut- 
ting up  the  ham  for  the  youngsters;  and  he 
told  how  he  chanced  to  come  out;  and  she 
entertained  him  with  stories  of  what  she 
thought  at  first  when  she  was  brought  a 
bride  to  Hamilton,  the  adjacent  village,  and 
convulsed  him  with  stories  of  the  people, 
whom  she  saw  with  humorous  eyes. 

Henderson  marvelled  how  she  could  in 
those  few  minutes  have  rescued  the  cabin 
from  the  desolation  in  which  the  storm  had 
plunged  it.  Out  of  the  window  he  could 
see  the  stricken  grasses  dripping  cold  moist- 
ure, and  the  sky  still  angrily  plunging  for- 
ward like  a  disturbed  sea.  Not  a  tree  or  a 
house  broke  the  view.  The  desolation  of  it 
swept  over  him  as  it  never  had  before.  But 


86  A  Mountain  Woman 

within  the  little  ones  were  chattering  to 
themselves  in  odd  baby  dialect,  and  the 
mother  was  laughing  with  them. 

"  Women  are  n't  always  useless,"  she  said, 
at  parting;  "  and  you  tell  your  chums  that 
when  they  get  hungry  for  a  slice  of  home- 
made bread  they  can  get  it  here.  And  the 
next  time  they  go  by,  I  want  them  to  stop 
in  and  look  at  the  children.  It  '11  do  them 
good.  They  may  think  they  won't  enjoy 
themselves,  but  they  will." 

"Oh,  I'll  answer  for  that!"  cried  he, 
shaking  hands  with  her.  "  I  '11  tell  them  we 
have  just  the  right  sort  of  a  neighbor." 

"Thank  you,"  said  she,  heartily.  "And 
you  may  tell  them  that  her  name  is  Cathe- 
rine Ford." 

Once  at  home,  he  told  his  story. 

"  H'm  !  "  said  Gillispie,  "I  guess  I  '11  have 
to  go  to  town  myself  to-morrow." 

Henderson  looked  at  him  blackly.  "  She 's 
a  woman  alone,  Gillispie,"  said  he,  severely, 
"  trying  to  make  her  way  with  handicaps  —  " 

"  Shet  up,  can't  ye,  ye  darned  fool  ? " 
roared  Gillispie.  "  What  do  yeh  take  me 
fur?" 


The  Three  Johns  87 

Waite  was  putting  on  his  rubber  coat 
preparatory  to  going  out  for  his  night  with 
the  cattle.  "  Guess  you  're  makin'  a  mistake, 
my  boy,"  he  said,  gently.  "  There  ain't  no 
danger  of  any  woman  bein'  treated  rude  in 
these  parts." 

"  I  know  it,  by  Jove !  "  cried  Henderson, 
in  quick  contriteness. 

"  All  right,"  grunted  Gillispie,  in  tacit 
acceptance  of  this  apology.  "  I  guess  you 
thought  you  was  in  civilized  parts." 

Two  days  after  this  Waite  came  in  late 
to  his  supper.  "  Well,  I  seen  her,"  he 
announced. 

"  Oh  !  did  you?  "  cried  Henderson,  know- 
ing perfectly  well  whom  he  meant.  "  What 
was  she  doing?  " 

"  Killin'  snakes,  b'  gosh !  She  says  th' 
baby  's  crazy  fur  um,  an'  so  she  takes  aroun' 
a  hoe  on  her  shoulder  wherever  she  goes, 
an'  when  she  sees  a  snake,  she  has  it  out 
with  'im  then  an'  there.  I  says  to  'er,  *  Yer 
don't  expec'  t'  git  all  th'  snakes  outen  this 
here  country,  d'  yeh?'  'Well,'  she  says, 
'  I  'm  as  good  a  man  as  St.  Patrick  any  day.' 
She  is  a  jolly  one,  Henderson.  She  tuk 


88  A  Mountain  Woman 

me  in  an'  showed  me  th'  kids,  and  give  me 
a  loaf  of  gingerbread  to  bring  home.  Here 
it  is ;  see  ?  " 

"  Hu  !  "  said  Gillispie.  "  I  'm  not  in  it." 
But  for  all  of  his  scorn  he  was  not  above 
eating  the  gingerbread. 

It  was  gardening  time,  and  the  three 
Johns  were  putting  in  every  spare  moment 
in  the  little  paling  made  of  willow  twigs 
behind  the  house.  It  was  little  enough 
time  they  had,  though,  for  the  cattle  were 
new  to  each  other  and  to  the  country,  and 
they  were  hard  to  manage.  It  was  generally 
conceded  that  VVaite  had  a  genius  for  herd- 
ing, and  he  could  take  the  "  mad  "  out  of  a 
fractious  animal  in  a  way  that  the  others 
looked  on  as  little  less  than  superhuman. 
Thus  it  was  that  one  day,  when  the  clay  had 
been  well  turned,  and  the  seeds  arranged  on 
the  kitchen  table,  and  all  things  prepared 
for  an  afternoon  of  busy  planting,  that  Waite 
and  Henderson,  who  were  needed  out  with 
the  cattle,  felt  no  little  irritation  at  the  inex- 
plicable absence  of  Gillispie,  who  was  to 
look  after  the  garden.  It  was  quite  night- 
fall when  he  at  last  returned.  Supper  was 


The  Three  Johns  89 

ready,  although  it  had  been  Gillispie's  turn 
to  prepare  it. 

Henderson  was  sore  from  his  saddle,  and 
cross  at  having  to  do  more  than  his  share 
of  the  work.  "  Damn  yeh !  "  he  cried,  as 
Gillispie  appeared.  "Where  yeh  been?" 

"  Making  garden,"  responded  Gillispie, 
slowly. 

"  Making  garden  !  "  Henderson  indulged 
in  some  more  harmless  oaths. 

Just  then  Gillispie  drew  from  under  his 
coat  a  large  and  friendly  looking  apple-pie. 
"Yes,"  he  said,  with  emphasis;  "  I  've  bin 
a-makin'  garden  fur  Mis'  Ford." 

And  so  it  came  about  that  the  three  Johns 
knew  her  and  served  her,  and  that  she  never 
had  a  need  that  they  were  not  ready  to 
supply  if  they  could.  Not  one  of  them 
would  have  thought  of  going  to  town  with- 
out stopping  to  inquire  what  was  needed 
at  the  village.  As  for  Catherine  Ford,  she 
was  fighting  her  way  with  native  pluck  and 
maternal  unselfishness.  If  she  had  feared 
solitude  she  did  not  suffer  from  it.  The 
activity  of  her  life  stifled  her  fresh  sorrow. 
She  was  pleasantly  excited  by  the  rumors 


90  A  Mountain  Woman 

that  a  railroad  was  soon  to  be  built  near  the 
place,  which  would  raise  the  value  of  the 
claim  she  was  "  holding  down  "  many  thou- 
sand dollars. 

It  is  marvellous  how  sorrow  shrinks  when 
one  is  very  healthy  and  very  much  occupied. 
Although  poverty  was  her  close  companion, 
Catherine  had  no  thought  of  it  in  this  prim- 
itive manner  of  living.  She  had  come  out 
there,  with  the  independence  and  determi- 
nation of  a  Western  woman,  for  the  purpose 
of  living  at  the  least  possible  expense,  and 
making  the  most  she  could  while  the  baby 
was  "  getting  out  of  her  arms."  That  process 
has  its  pleasures,  which  every  mother  feels 
in  spite  of  burdens,  and  the  mind  is  happily 
dulled  by  nature's  merciful  provision.  With 
a  little  child  tugging  at  the  breast,  care  and 
fret  vanish,  not  because  of  the  happiness 
so  much  as  because  of  a  certain  mammal 
complacency,  which  is  not  at  all  intellectual, 
but  serves  its  purpose  better  than  the  pro- 
foundest  method  of  reasoning. 

So  without  any  very  unbearable  misery  at 
her  recent  widowhood,  this  healthy  young 
woman  worked  in  field  and  house,  cared  for 


The  Three  Johns  91 

her  little  ones,  milked  the  two  cows  out  in 
the  corral,  sewed,  sang,  rode,  baked,  and 
was  happy  for  very  wholesomeness.  Some- 
times she  reproached  herself  that  she  was 
not  more  miserable,  remembering  that  long 
grave  back  in  the  unkempt  little  prairie 
cemetery,  and  she  sat  down  to  coax  her 
sorrow  into  proper  prominence.  But  the 
baby  cooing  at  her  from  its  bunk,  the  low 
of  the  cattle  from  the  corral  begging  her  to 
relieve  their  heavy  bags,  the  familiar  call 
of  one  of  her  neighbors  from  without,  even 
the  burning  sky  of  the  summer  dawns,  broke 
the  spell  of  this  conjured  sorrow,  and  in 
spite  of  herself  she  was  again  a  very  hearty 
and  happy  young  woman.  Besides,  if  one 
has  a  liking  for  comedy,  it  is  impossible  to 
be  dull  on  a  Nebraska  prairie.  The  people 
are  a  merrier  divertisement  than  the  theatre 
with  its  hackneyed  stories.  Catherine  Ford 
laughed  a  good  deal,  and  she  took  the  three 
Johns  into  her  confidence,  and  they  laughed 
with  her.  There  was  Minerva  Fitch,  who 
insisted  on  coming  over  to  tell  Catherine 
how  to  raise  her  children,  and  who  was 
almost  offended  that  the  children  would  n't 


92  A  Mountain  Woman 

die  of  sunstroke  when  she  predicted.  And 
there  was  Bob  Ackerman,  who  had  inflam- 
matory rheumatism  and  a  Past,  and  who 
confided  the  latter  to  Mrs.  Ford  while  she 
doctored  the  former  with  homoeopathic 
medicines.  And  there  were  all  the  strange 
visionaries  who  came  out  prospecting,  and 
quite  naturally  drifted  to  Mrs.  Ford's  cabin 
for  a  meal,  and  paid  her  in  compliments  of 
a  peculiarly  Western  type.  And  there  were 
the  three  Johns  themselves.  Catherine  con- 
sidered it  no  treason  to  laugh  at  them  a 
little. 

Yet  at  Waite  she  did  not  laugh  much. 
There  had  come  to  be  something  pathetic  in 
the  constant  service  he  rendered  her.  The 
beginning  of  his  more  particular  devotion 
had  started  in  a  particular  way.  Malaria 
was  very  bad  in  the  country.  It  had  carried 
off  some  of  the  most  vigorous  on  the  prairie, 
and  twice  that  summer  Catherine  herself  had 
laid  out  the  cold  forms  of  her  neighbors  on 
ironing-boards,  and,  with  the  assistance  of 
Bill  Deems  of  Missourah,  had  read  the 
burial  service  over  them.  She  had  averted 
several  other  fatal  runs  of  fever  by  the  con- 


The  Three  Johns  93 

tents  of  her  little  medicine-case.  These 
remedies  she  dealt  out  with  an  intelligence 
that  astonished  her  patients,  until  it  was 
learned  that  she  was  studying  medicine  at 
the  time  that  she  met  her  late  husband,  and 
was  persuaded  to  assume  the  responsibilities 
of  matrimony  instead  of  those  of  the  medi- 
cal profession. 

One  day  in  midsummer,  when  the  sun 
was  focussing  itself  on  the  raw  pine  boards 
of  her  shanty,  and  Catherine  had  the  shades 
drawn  for  coolness  and  the  water-pitcher 
swathed  in  wet  rags,  East  Indian  fashion, 
she  heard  the  familiar  halloo  of  Waite  down 
the  road.  This  greeting,  which  was  usually 
sent  to  her  from  the  point  where  the  dip- 
ping road  lifted  itself  into  the  first  view  of 
the  house,  did  not  contain  its  usual  note  of 
cheerfulness.  Catherine,  wiping  her  hands 
on  her  checked  apron,  ran  out  to  wave  a 
welcome ;  and  Waite,  his  squat  body  looking 
more  distorted  than  ever,  his  huge  shoulders 
lurching  as  he  walked,  came  fairly  plung- 
ing down  the  hill. 

"  It 's  all  up  with  Henderson  !  "  he  cried, 
as  Catherine  approached.  "  He  's  got  the 
malery,  an'  he  says  he 's  dyin'." 


94  A  Mountain  Woman 

"  That 's  no  sign  he 's  dying,  because  he 
says  so/'  retorted  Catherine. 

"He  wants  to  see  yeh,"  panted  Waite, 
mopping  his  big  ugly  head.  "I  think  he's 
got  somethin'  particular  to  say." 

"  How  long  has  he  been  down?  " 

"  Three  days ;  an'  yeh  would  n't  know 
'im." 

The  children  were  playing  on  the  floor  at 
that  side  of  the  house  where  it  was  least 
hot.  Catherine  poured  out  three  bowls  of 
milk,  and  cut  some  bread,  meanwhile  telling 
Kitty  how  to  feed  the  baby. 

"  She 's  a  sensible  thing,  is  the  little 
daughter,"  said  Catherine,  as  she  tied  on 
her  sunbonnet  and  packed  a  little  basket 
with  things  from  the  cupboard.  She  kissed 
the  babies  tenderly,  flung  her  hoe — her 
only  weapon  of  defence  — over  her  shoulder, 
and  the  two  started  off. 

They  did  not  speak,  for  their  throats  were 
soon  too  parched.  The  prairie  was  burned 
brown  with  the  sun ;  the  grasses  curled  as 
if  they  had  been  on  a  gridiron.  A  strong 
wind  was  blowing;  but  it  brought  no  com- 
fort, for  it  was  heavy  with  a  scorching  heat. 


The  Three  Johns  95 

The  skin  smarted  and  blistered  under  it,  and 
the  eyes  felt  as  if  they  were  filled  with  sand. 
The  sun  seemed  to  swing  but  a  little  way 
above  the  earth,  and  though  the  sky  was 
intensest  blue,  around  about  this  burning 
ball  there  was  a  halo  of  copper,  as  if  the 
very  ether  were  being  consumed  in  yellow 
fire. 

Waite  put  some  big  burdock-leaves  on 
Catherine's  head  under  her  bonnet,  and  now 
and  then  he  took  a  bottle  of  water  from  his 
pocket  and  made  her  swallow  a  mouthful. 
She  staggered  often  as  she  walked,  and  the 
road  was  black  before  her.  Still,  it  was  not 
very  long  before  the  oddly  shaped  shack  of 
the  three  Johns  came  in  sight;  and  as  he 
caught  a  glimpse  of  it,  Waite  quickened  his 
footsteps. 

"What  if  he  should  be  gone?"  he  said, 
under  his  breath. 

"Oh,  come  off!  "  said  Catherine,  angrily. 
"  He 's  not  gone.  You  make  me  tired  !  " 

But  she  was  trembling  when  she  stopped 
just  before  the  door  to  compose  herself  for 
a  moment.  Indeed,  she  trembled  so  very 
much  that  Waite  put  out  his  sprawling  hand 


g6  A  Mountain  Woman 

to  steady  her.  She  gently  felt  the  pressure 
tightening,  and  Waite  whispered  in  her  ear : 

"  I  guess  I  'd  stand  by  him  as  well  as  any- 
body, excep'  you,  Mis'  Ford.  He 's  been 
my  bes'  friend.  But  I  guess  you  like  him 
better,  eh?" 

Catherine  raised  her  ringer.  She  could 
hear  Henderson's  voice  within;  it  was 
pitiably  querulous.  He  was  half  sitting  up 
in  his  bunk,  and  Gillispie  had  just  handed 
him  a  plate  on  which  two  cakes  were  swim- 
ming in  black  molasses  and  pork  gravy. 
Henderson  looked  at  it  a  moment ;  then 
over  his  face  came  a  look  of  utter  despair. 
He  dropped  his  head  in  his  arms  and  broke 
into  uncontrolled  crying. 

"Oh,  my  God,  Gillispie,"  he  sobbed,  "I 
shall  die  out  here  in  this  wretched  hole !  I 
want  my  mother.  Great  God,  Gillispie,  am 
I  going  to  die  without  ever  seeing  my 
mother?" 

Gillispie,  maddened  at  this  anguish,  which 
he  could  in  no  way  alleviate,  sought  comfort 
by  first  lighting  his  pipe  and  then  taking  his 
revolver  out  of  his  hip-pocket  and  playing 
with  it.  Henderson  continued  to  shake  with 


The  Three  Johns  97 

sobs,  and  Catherine,  who  had  never  before 
in  her  life  heard  a  man  cry,  leaned  against 
the  door  for  a  moment  to  gather  courage. 
Then  she  ran  into  the  house  quickly,  laugh- 
ing as  she  came.  She  took  Henderson's 
arms  away  from  his  face  and  laid  him  back 
on  the  pillow,  and  she  stooped  over  him 
and  kissed  his  forehead  in  the  most  matter- 
of-fact  way. 

"  That 's  what  your  mother  would  do  if  she 
were  here,"  she  cried,  merrily.  "  Where  's 
the  water?" 

She  washed  his  face  and  hands  a  long 
time,  till  they  were  cool  and  his  convulsive 
sobs  had  ceased.  Then  she  took  a  slice  of 
thin  bread  from  her  basket  and  a  spoonful 
of  amber  jelly.  She  beat  an  egg  into  some 
milk  and  dropped  a  little  liquor  within  it, 
and  served  them  together  on  the  first  clean 
napkin  that  had  been  in  the  cabin  of  the 
three  Johns  since  it  was  built. 

At  this  the  great  fool  on  the  bed  cried 
again,  only  quietly,  tears  of  weak  happi- 
ness running'  from  his  feverish  eyes.  And 
Catherine  straightened  the  disorderly  cabin. 
She  came  every  day  for  two  weeks,  and  by 
7 


98  A  Mountain  Woman 

that  time  Henderson,  very  uncertain  as  to  the 
strength  of  his  legs,  but  once  more  accoutred 
in  his  native  pluck,  sat  up  in  a  chair,  for 
which  she  had  made  clean  soft  cushions, 
writing  a  letter  to  his  mother.  The  floor 
was  scrubbed;  the  cabin  had  taken  to  itself 
cupboards  made  of  packing-boxes;  it  had 
clothes-presses  and  shelves;  curtains  at  the 
windows;  boxes  for  all  sort  of  necessaries, 
from  flour  to  tobacco ;  and  a  cook-book  on 
the  wall,  with  an  inscription  within  which 
was  more  appropriate  than  respectful. 

The  day  that  she  announced  that  she 
would  have  no  further  call  to  come  back, 
Waite,  who  was  looking  after  the  house 
while  Gillispie  was  afield,  made  a  little 
speech. 

"After  this  here,"  he  said,  "we  four 
stands  er  falls  together.  Now  look  here, 
there  's  lots  of  things  can  happen  to  a  person 
on  this  cussed  praira,  and  no  one  be  none 
th'  wiser.  So  see  here,  Mis'  Ford,  every 
night  one  of  us  is  a-goin'  to  th'  roof  of  this 
shack.  From  there  we  can  see  your  place. 
If  anything  is  th'  matter  —  it  don't  signify 
how  little  er  how  big  —  you  hang  a  lantern 


The  Three  Johns  99 

on  th'  stick  that  I  '11  put  alongside  th'  house 
to-morrow.  Yeh  can  h'ist  th'  light  up  with 
a  string,  and  every  mornin'  before  we  go 
out  we  '11  look  too,  and  a  white  rag  '11  bring  us 
quick  as  we  can  git  there.  We  don't  say 
nothin'  about  what  we  owe  yeh,  fur  that 
ain't  our  way,  but  we  sticks  to  each  other 
from  this  on." 

Catherine's  eyes  were  moist.  She  looked 
at  Henderson.  His  face  had  no  expression 
in  it  at  all.  He  did  not  even  say  good-by 
to  her,  and  she  turned,  with  the  tears  sud- 
denly dried  under  her  lids,  and  walked 
down  the  road  in  the  twilight. 

Weeks  went  by,  and  though  Gillispie  and 
Waite  were  often  at  Catherine's,  Henderson 
never  came.  Gillispie  gave  it  out  as  his 
opinion  that  Henderson  was  an  ungrateful 
puppy;  but  Waite  said  nothing.  This 
strange  man,  who  seemed  like  a  mere  unto- 
ward accident  of  nature,  had  changed  dur- 
ing the  summer.  His  big  ill-shaped  body 
had  grown  more  gaunt;  his  deep-set  gray 
eyes  had  sunk  deeper ;  the  gentleness  which 
had  distinguished  him  even  on  the  wild 
ranges  of  Montana  became  more  marked. 


ioo          A  Mountain  Woman 

Late  in  August  he  volunteered  to  take  on 
himself  the  entire  charge  of  the  night 
watch. 

"  It 's  nicer  to  be  out  at  night/'  he  said 
to  Catherine.  "  Then  you  don't  keep  look- 
ing off  at  things ;  you  can  look  inside ;  "  and 
he  struck  his  breast  with  his  splay  hand. 

Cattle  are  timorous  under  the  stars.  The 
vastness  of  the  plains,  the  sweep  of  the  wind 
under  the  unbroken  arch,  frighten  them; 
they  are  made  for  the  close  comforts  of  the 
barn-yard;  and  the  apprehension  is  con- 
tagious, as  every  ranchman  knows.  Waite 
realized  the  need  of  becoming  good  friends 
with  his  animals.  Night  after  night,  riding 
up  and  down  in  the  twilight  of  the  stars,  or 
dozing,  rolled  in  his  blanket,  in  the  shelter 
of  a  knoll,  he  would  hear  a  low  roar;  it 
was  the  cry  of  the  alarmist.  Then  from 
every  direction  the  cattle  would  rise  with 
trembling  awkwardness  on  their  knees,  and 
answer,  giving  out  sullen  bellowings.  Some 
of  them  would  begin  to  move  from  place  to 
place,  spreading  the  baseless  alarm,  and 
then  came  the  time  for  action,  else  over  the 
plain  in  mere  fruitless  frenzy  would  go  the 


The  Three  Johns  101 

whole  frantic  band,  lashed  to  madness  by 
their  own  fears,  trampling  each  other,  heed- 
less of  any  obstacle,  in  pitiable,  deadly  rout. 
Waite  knew  the  premonitory  signs  well,  and 
at  the  first  warning  bellow  he  was  on  his 
feet,  alert  and  determined,  his  energy 
nerved  for  a  struggle  in  which  he  always 
conquered. 

Waite  had  a  secret  which  he  told  to  none, 
knowing,  in  his  unanalytical  fashion,  that  it 
would  not  be  believed  in.  But  soon  as  ever 
the  dark  heads  of  the  cattle  began  to  lift 
themselves,  he  sent  a  resonant  voice  out 
into  the  stillness.  The  songs  he  sang  were 
hymns,  and  he  made  them  into  a  sort  of 
imperative  lullaby.  Waite  let  his  lungs 
and  soul  fill  with  the  breath  of  the  night; 
he  gave  himself  up  to  the  exaltation  of 
mastering  those  trembling  brutes.  Mount- 
ing, melodious,  with  even  and  powerful 
swing  he  let  his  full  notes  fall  on  the  air 
in  the  confidence  of  power,  and  one  by  one 
the  reassured  cattle  would  lie  down  again, 
lowing  in  soft  contentment,  and  so  fall 
asleep  with  noses  stretched  out  in  mute 
attention,  till  their  presence  could  hardly 


IO2  A  Mountain  Woman 

be  guessed  except  for  the  sweet  aroma  of 
their  cuds. 

One  night  in  the  early  dusk,  he  saw  Cath- 
erine Ford  hastening  across  the  prairie  with 
Bill  Deems.  He  sent  a  halloo  out  to  them, 
which  they  both  answered  as  they  ran  on. 
Waite  knew  on  what  errand  of  mercy  Cath- 
erine was  bent,  and  he  thought  of  the  chil- 
dren over  at  the  cabin  alone.  The  cattle 
were  quiet,  the  night  beautiful,  and  he  con- 
cluded that  it  was  safe  enough,  since  he  was 
on  his  pony,  to  ride  down  there  about  mid- 
night and  see  that  the  little  ones  were  safe. 

The  dark  sky,  pricked  with  points  of  in- 
tensest  light,  hung  over  him  so  beneficently 
that  in  his  heart  there  leaped  a  joy  which 
even  his  ever-present  sorrow  could  not  dis- 
turb. This  sorrow  Waite  openly  admitted 
not  only  to  himself,  but  to  others.  He  had 
said  to  Catherine :  "  You  see,  I  '11  always  hev 
to  love  yeh.  An'  yeh  '11  not  git  cross  with 
me ;  I  'm  not  goin'  to  be  in  th'  way."  And 
Catherine  had  told  him,  with  tears  in  her 
eyes,  that  his  love  could  never  be  but  a  com- 
fort to  any  woman.  And  these  words,  which 
the  poor  fellow  had  in  no  sense  mistaken, 


The  Three  Johns  103 

comforted  him  always,  became  part  of  his 
joy  as  he  rode  there,  under  those  piercing 
stars,  to  look  after  her  little  ones.  He  found 
them  sleeping  in  their  bunks,  the  baby  tight 
in  Kitty's  arms,  the  little  boy  above  them  in 
the  upper  bunk,  with  his  hand  in  the  long 
hair  of  his  brown  spaniel.  Waite  softly 
kissed  each  of  them,  so  Kitty,  who  was  half 
waking,  told  her  mother  afterwards,  and 
then,  bethinking  him  that  Catherine  might 
not  be  able  to  return  in  time  for  their  break- 
fast, found  the  milk  and  bread,  and  set  it  for 
them  on  the  table.  Catherine  had  been 
writing,  and  her  unfinished  letter  lay  open 
beside  the  ink.  He  took  up  the  pen  and 
wrote, 

"  The  childdren  was  all  asleep  at  twelv. 

"J.  W." 

He  had  not  more  than  got  on  his  pony 
again  before  he  heard  an  ominous  sound 
that  made  his  heart  leap.  It  was  a  frantic 
dull  pounding  of  hoofs.  He  knew  in  a 
second  what  it  meant.  There  was  a  stam- 
pede among  the  cattle.  If  the  animals  had 


IO4          A  Mountain  Woman 

all  been  his,  he  would  not  have  lost  his  sense 
of  judgment.  But  the  realization  that  he 
had  voluntarily  undertaken  the  care  of  them, 
and  that  the  larger  part  of  them  belonged 
to  his  friends,  put  him  in  a  passion  of  appre- 
hension that,  as  a  ranchman,  was  almost  in- 
explicable. He  did  the  very  thing  of  all 
others  that  no  cattle-man  in  his  right  senses 
would  think  of  doing.  Gillispie  and  Hender- 
son, talking  it  over  afterward,  were  never 
able  to  understand  it  It  is  possible — just 
barely  possible  —  that  Waite,  still  drunk  on 
his  solitary  dreams,  knew  what  he  was  doing, 
and  chose  to  bring  his  little  chapter  to  an 
end  while  the  lines  were  pleasant.  At  any 
rate,  he  rode  straight  forward,  shouting  and 
waving  his  arms  in  an  insane  endeavor  to 
head  off  that  frantic  mob.  The  noise  woke 
the  children,  and  they  peered  from  the 
window  as  the  pawing  and  bellowing  herd 
plunged  by,  trampling  the  young  steers 
under  their  feet. 

In  the  early  morning,  Catherine  Ford,  spent 
both  in  mind  and  body,  came  walking  slowly 
home.  In  her  heart  was  a  prayer  of  thanks- 
giving. Mary  Deems  lay  sleeping  back  in 


The  Three  Johns  105 

her  comfortless  shack,  with  her  little  son  by 
her  side. 

"  The  wonder  of  God  is  in  it,"  said  Cath- 
erine to  herself  as  she  walked  home.  "  All 
the  ministers  of  all  the  world  could  not  have 
preached  me  such  a  sermon  as  I  Ve  had 
to-night." 

So  dim  had  been  the  light  and  so  per- 
turbed her  mind  that  she  had  not  noticed 
how  torn  and  trampled  was  the  road.  But 
suddenly  a  bulk  in  her  pathway  startled  her. 
It  was  the  dead  and  mangled  body  of  a  steer. 
She  stooped  over  it  to  read  the  brand  on  its 
flank.  "  It 's  one  of  the  three  Johns',"  she 
cried  out,  looking  anxiously  about  her. 
"  How  could  that  have  happened  ?  " 

The  direction  which  the  cattle  had  taken 
was  toward  her  house,  and  she  hastened 
homeward.  And  not  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
from  her  door  she  found  the  body  of  Waite 
beside  that  of  his  pony,  crushed  out  of  its 
familiar  form  into  something  unspeakably 
shapeless.  In  her  excitement  she  half 
dragged,  half  carried  that  mutilated  body 
home,  and  then  ran  up  her  signal  of  alarm 
on  the  stick  that  Waite  himself  had  erected 


106          A  Mountain  Woman 

for  her  convenience.  She  thought  it  would 
be  a  long  time  before  any  one  reached  her, 
but  she  had  hardly  had  time  to  bathe  the 
disfigured  face  and  straighten  the  disfigured 
body  before  Henderson  was  pounding  at  her 
door.  Outside  stood  his  pony  panting  from 
its  terrific  exertions.  Henderson  had  not 
seen  her  before  for  six  weeks.  Now  he 
stared  at  her  with  frightened  eyes. 

"What  is  it?  What  is  it?"  he  cried. 
"  What  has  happened  to  you,  my  —  my 
love?" 

At  least  afterward,  thinking  it  over  as  she 
worked  by  day  or  tossed  in  her  narrow  bunk 
at  night,  it  seemed  to  Catherine  that  those 
were  the  words  he  spoke.  Yet  she  could 
never  feel  sure ;  nothing  in  his  manner  after 
that  justified  the  impassioned  anxiety  of  his 
manner  in  those  first  few  uncertain  moments ; 
for  a  second  later  he  saw  the  body  of  his 
friend  and  learned  the  little  that  Catherine 
knew.  They  buried  him  the  next  day  in  a 
little  hollow  where  there  was  a  spring  and 
some  wild  aspens. 

"  He  never  liked  the  prairie,"  Catherine 
said,  when  she  selected  the  spot.  "  And  I 
want  him  to  lie  as  sheltered  as  possible." 


The  Three  Johns  107 

After  he  had  been  laid  at  rest,  and  she 
was  back,  busy  with  tidying  her  neglected 
shack,  she  fell  to  crying  so  that  the  children 
were  scared. 

"  There 's  no  one  left  to  care  what  becomes 
of  us,"  she  told  them,  bitterly.  "  We  might 
starve  out  here  for  all  that  any  one  cares." 

And  all  through  the  night  her  tears  fell, 
and  she  told  herself  that  they  were  all  for  the 
man  whose  last  thought  was  for  her  and  her 
babies ;  she  told  herself  over  and  over  again 
that  her  tears  were  all  for  him.  After  this 
the  autumn  began  to  hurry  on,  and  the  snow 
fell  capriciously,  days  of  biting  cold  giving 
place  to  retrospective  glances  at  summer. 
The  last  of  the  vegetables  were  taken  out  of 
the  garden  and  buried  in  the  cellar;  and  a 
few  tons  of  coal  —  dear  almost  as  diamonds 
—  were  brought  out  to  provide  against  the 
severest  weather.  Ordinarily  buffalo  chips 
were  the  fuel.  Catherine  was  alarmed  at 
the  way  her  wretched  little  store  of  money 
began  to  vanish.  The  baby  was  fretful  with 
its  teething,  and  was  really  more  care  than 
when  she  nursed  it.  The  days  shortened, 
and  it  seemed  to  her  that  she  was  forever 


io8          A  Mountain  Woman 

working  by  lamp-light.  The  prairies  were 
brown  and  forbidding,  the  sky  often  a  mere 
gray  pall.  The  monotony  of  the  life  began 
to  seem  terrible.  Sometimes  her  ears  ached 
for  a  sound.  For  a  time  in  the  summer  so 
many  had  seemed  to  need  her  that  she  had 
been  happy  in  spite  of  her  poverty  and  her 
loneliness.  Now,  suddenly,  no  one  wanted 
her.  She  could  find  no  source  of  inspiration. 
She  wondered  how  she  was  going  to  live 
through  the  winter,  and  keep  her  patience 
and  her  good-nature. 

"  You  '11  love  me,"  she  said,  almost  fiercely, 
one  night  to  the  children  — "  you  '11  love 
mamma,  no  matter  how  cross  and  homely 
she  gets,  won't  you  ?  " 

The  cold  grew  day  by  day.  A  strong 
winter  was  setting  in.  Catherine  took  up 
her  study  of  medicine  again,  and  sat  over 
her  books  till  midnight.  It  occurred  to  her 
that  she  might  fit  herself  for  nursing  by 
spring,  and  that  the  children  could  be  put 
with  some  one  —  she  did  not  dare  to  think 
with  whom.  But  this  was  the  only  solution 
she  could  find  to  her  problem  of  existence. 

November   settled   down   drearily.     Few 


The  Three  Johns  109 

passed  the  shack.  Catherine,  who  had  no 
one  to  speak  with  excepting  the  children, 
continually  devised  amusements  for  them. 
They  got  to  living  in  a  world  of  fantasy, 
and  were  never  themselves,  but  always  wild 
Indians,  or  arctic  explorers,  or  Robinson 
Crusoes.  Kitty  and  Roderick,  young  as 
they  were,  found  a  never-ending  source  of 
amusement  in  these  little  grotesque  dreams 
and  dramas.  The  fund  of  money  was  get- 
ting so  low  that  Catherine  was  obliged  to 
economize  even  in  the  necessities.  If  it  had 
not  been  for  her  two  cows,  she  would  hardly 
have  known  how  to  find  food  for  her  little 
ones.  But  she  had  a  wonderful  way  of  mak- 
ing things  with  eggs  and  milk,  and  she  kept 
her  little  table  always  inviting.  The  day 
before  Thanksgiving  she  determined  that 
they  should  all  have  a  frolic. 

"  By  Christmas,"  she  said  to  Kitty,  "  the 
snow  may  be  so  bad  that  I  cannot  get 
to  town.  We'll  have  our  high  old  time 
now." 

There  is  no  denying  that  Catherine  used 
slang  even  in  talking  to  the  children.  The 
little  pony  had  been  sold  long  ago,  and 


no          A  Mountain  Woman 

going  to  town  meant  a  walk  of  twelve  miles. 
But  Catherine  started  out  early  in  the 
morning,  and  was  back  by  nightfall,  not 
so  very  much  the  worse,  and  carrying  in 
her  arms  bundles  which  might  have  fatigued 
a  bronco. 

The  next  morning  she  was  up  early,  and 
was  as  happy  and  ridiculously  excited  over 
the  prospect  of  the  day's  merrymaking  as 
if  she  had  been  Kitty.  Busy  as  she  was, 
she  noticed  a  peculiar  oppression  in  the  air, 
which  intensified  as  the  day  went  on.  The 
sky  seemed  to  hang  but  a  little  way  above 
the  rolling  stretch  of  frost-bitten  grass.  But 
Kitty  laughing  over  her  new  doll,  Roderick 
startling  the  sullen  silence  with  his  drum, 
the  smell  of  the  chicken,  slaughtered  to 
make  a  prairie  holiday,  browning  in  the 
oven,  drove  all  apprehensions  from  Cath- 
erine's mind.  She  was  a  common  creature. 
Such  very  little  things  could  make  her  happy. 
She  sang  as  she  worked  ;  and  what  with  the 
drumming  of  her  boy,  and  the  little  exulting 
shrieks  of  her  baby,  the  shack  was  filled  with 
a  deafening  and  exhilarating  din. 

It  was  a  little  past  noon,  when  she  became 


The  Three  Johns  1 1 1 

conscious  that  there  was  sweeping  down  on 
her  a  gray  sheet  of  snow  and  ice,  and  not 
till  then  did  she  realize  what  those  lowering 
clouds  had  signified.  For  one  moment  she 
stood  half  paralyzed.  She  thought  of  every- 
thing, —  of  the  cattle,  of  the  chance  for  being 
buried  in  this  drift,  of  the  stock  of  provi- 
sions, of  the  power  of  endurance  of  the 
children.  While  she  was  still  thinking,  the 
first  ice-needles  of  the  blizzard  came  pepper- 
ing the  windows.  The  cattle  ran  bellowing 
to  the  lee  side  of  the  house  and  crouched 
there,  and  the  chickens  scurried  for  the  coop. 
Catherine  seized  such  blankets  and  bits  of 
carpet  as  she  could  find,  and  crammed  them 
at  windows  and  doors.  Then  she  piled  coal 
on  the  fire,  and  clothed  the  children  in  all 
they  had  that  was  warmest,  their  out-door  gar- 
ments included ;  and  with  them  close  about 
her,  she  sat  and  waited.  The  wind  seemed 
to  push  steadily  at  the  walls  of  the  house. 
The  howling  became  horrible.  She  could 
see  that  the  children  were  crying  with  fright, 
but  she  could  not  hear  them.  The  air  was 
dusky;  the  cold,  in  spite  of  the  fire,  intol- 
erable. In  every  crevice  of  the  wretched 


H2          A  Mountain  Woman 

structure  the  ice  and  snow  made  their  way. 
It  came  through  the  roof,  and  began  piling 
up  in  little  pointed  strips  under  the  crevices. 
Catherine  put  the  children  all  together  in 
one  bunk,  covered  them  with  all  the  bed- 
clothes she  had,  and  then  stood  before  them 
defiantly,  facing  the  west,  from  whence  the 
wind  was  driving.  Not  suddenly,  but  by 
steady  pressure,  at  length  the  window-sash 
yielded,  and  the  next  moment  that  whirlwind 
was  in  the  house,  —  a  maddening  tumult  of 
ice  and  wind,  leaving  no  room  for  resistance ; 
a  killing  cold,  against  which  it  was  futile  to 
fight.  Catherine  threw  the  bedclothes  over 
the  heads  of  the  children,  and  then  threw 
herself  across  the  bunk,  gasping  and  chok- 
ing for  breath.  Her  body  would  not  have 
yielded  to  the  suffering  yet,  so  strongly 
made  and  sustained  was  it;  but  her  dismay 
stifled  her.  She  saw  in  one  horrified  moment 
the  frozen  forms  of  her  babies,  now  so  pink 
and  pleasant  to  the  sense ;  and  oblivion  came 
to  save  her  from  further  misery. 

She  was  alive — just  barely  alive  —  when 
Gillispie  and  Henderson  got  there,  three 
hours  later,  the  very  balls  of  their  eyes 


The  Three  Johns  113 

almost  frozen  into  blindness.  But  for  an 
instinct  stronger  than  reason  they  would 
never  have  been  able  to  have  found  their 
way  across  that  trackless  stretch.  The  chil- 
dren lying  unconscious  under  their  coverings 
were  neither  dead  nor  actually  frozen,  al- 
though the  men  putting  their  hands  on  their 
little  hearts  could  not  at  first  discover  the 
beating.  Stiff  and  suffering  as  these  young 
fellows  were,  it  was  no  easy  matter  to  get 
the  window  back  into  place  and  re-light  the 
fire.  They  had  tied  flasks  of  liquor  about 
their  waists ;  and  this  beneficent  fluid  they 
used  with  that  sense  of  appreciation  which 
only  a  pioneer  can  feel  toward  whiskey.  It 
was  hours  before  Catherine  rewarded  them 
with  a  gleam  of  consciousness.  Her  body 
had  been  frozen  in  many  places.  Her  arms, 
outstretched  over  her  children  and  holding 
the  clothes  down  about  them,  were  rigid. 
But  consciousness  came  at  length,  dimly 
struggling  up  through  her  brain;  and  over 
her  she  saw  her  friends  rubbing  and  rubbing 
those  strong  firm  arms  of  hers  with  snow. 

She  half  raised  her  head,  with  a  horror  of 
comprehension  in  her  eyes,  and  listened.    A 
8 


H4         A  Mountain  Woman 

cry  answered  her,  —  a  cry  of  dull  pain  from 
the  baby.  Henderson  dropped  on  his  knees 
beside  her. 

"They  are  all  safe,"  he  said.  "And  we 
will  never  leave  you  again.  I  have  been 
afraid  to  tell  you  how  I  love  you.  I  thought 
I  might  offend  you.  I  thought  I  ought  to 
wait — you  know  why.  But  I  will  never  let 
you  run  the  risks  of  this  awful  life  alone 
again.  You  must  rename  the  baby.  From 
this  day  his  name  is  John.  And  we  will 
have  the  three  Johns  again  back  at  the  old 
ranch.  It  does  n't  matter  whether  you  love 
me  or  not,  Catherine,  I  am  going  to  take 
care  of  you  just  the  same.  Gillispie  agrees 
with  me." 

"Damme,  yes,"  muttered  Gillispie,  feeling 
of  his  hip-pocket  for  consolation  in  his  old 
manner. 

Catherine  struggled  to  find  her  voice,  but 
it  would  not  come. 

"  Do  not  speak,"  whispered  John.  "  Tell 
me  with  your  eyes  whether  you  will  come 
as  my  wife  or  only  as  our  sister." 

Catherine  told  him. 

"This  is  Thanksgiving    day,"    said    he. 


The  Three  Johns  115 

"  And  we  don't  know  much  about  praying, 
but  I  guess  we  all  have  something  in  our 
hearts  that  does  just  as  welL" 

"Damme,  yes,"  said  Gillispie,  again,  as 
he  pensively  cocked  and  uncocked  his  re- 
volver. 


f: 
A  Resuscitation 


A  Resuscitation 


AFTER  being  dead  twenty  years,  he 
walked  out  into  the  sunshine. 

It  was  as  if  the  bones  of  a  bleached  skele- 
ton should  join  themselves  on  some  forgotten 
plain,  and  look  about  them  for  the  vanished 
flesh. 

To  be  dead  it  is  not  necessary  to  be  in 
the  grave.  There  are  places  where  the 
worms  creep  about  the  heart  instead  of  the 
body. 

The  penitentiary  is  one  of  these. 

David  Culross  had  been  in  the  penitentiary 
twenty  years.  Now,  with  that  worm-eaten 
heart,  he  came  out  into  liberty  and  looked 
about  him  for  the  habiliments  with  which 
he  had  formerly  clothed  himself,  —  for 
hope,  self-respect,  courage,  pugnacity,  and 
industry. 

But  they  had  vanished  and  left  no  trace, 
like  the  flesh  of  the  dead  men  on  the  plains, 


I2O          A  Mountain  Woman 

and  so,  morally  unapparelled,  in  the  hideous 
skeleton  of  his  manhood,  he  walked  on  down 
the  street  under  the  mid-June  sunshine. 

You  can  understand,  can  you  not,  how  a 
skeleton  might  wish  to  get  back  into  its 
comfortable  grave?  David  Culross  had  not 
walked  two  blocks  before  he  was  seized 
with  an  almost  uncontrollable  desire  to  beg 
to  be  shielded  once  more  in  that  safe  and 
shameful  retreat  from  which  he  had  just 
been  released.  A  horrible  perception  of  the 
largeness  of  the  world  swept  over  him. 
Space  and  eternity  could  seem  no  larger 
to  the  usual  man  than  earth  —  that  snug 
and  insignificant  planet  —  looked  to  David 
Culross. 

"If  I  go  back,"  he  cried,  despairingly, 
looking  up  to  the  great  building  that  arose 
above  the  stony  hills,  "  they  will  not  take 
me  in."  He  was  absolutely  without  a  refuge, 
utterly  without  a  destination;  he  did  not 
have  a  hope.  There  was  nothing  he  desired 
except  the  surrounding  of  those  four  narrow 
walls  between  which  he  had  lain  at  night 
and  dreamed  those  ever-recurring  dreams, — 
dreams  which  were  never  prophecies  or 


A  Resuscitation  121 

promises,  but  always  the  hackneyed  history 
of  what  he  had  sacrificed  by  his  crime,  and 
relinquished  by  his  pride. 

The  men  who  passed  him  looked  at  him 
with  mingled  amusement  and  pity.  They 
knew  the  "  prison  look,"  and  they  knew  the 
prison  clothes.  For  though  the  State  gives 
to  its  discharged  convicts  clothes  which  are 
like  those  of  other  men,  it  makes  a  hundred 
suits  from  the  same  sort  of  cloth.  The 
police  know  the  fabric,  and  even  the  citizens 
recognize  it.  But,  then,  were  each  man 
dressed  in  different  garb  he  could  not  be 
disguised.  Every  one  knows  in  what  dull 
school  that  sidelong  glance  is  learned,  that 
aimless  drooping  of  the  shoulders,  that 
rhythmic  lifting  of  the  heavy  foot. 

David  Culross  wondered  if  his  will  were 
dead.  He  put  it  to  the  test.  He  lifted  up 
his  head  to  a  position  which  it  had  not  held 
for  many  miserable  years.  He  put  his  hands 
in  his  pockets  in  a  pitiful  attempt  at  non- 
chalance, and  walked  down  the  street  with 
a  step  which  was  meant  to  be  brisk,  but 
which  was  in  fact  only  uncertain.  In  his 
pocket  were  ten  dollars.  This  much  the 


122          A  Mountain  Woman 

State  equips  a  man  with  when  it  sends  him 
out  of  its  penal  halls.  It  gives  him  also 
transportation  to  any  point  within  reasonable 
distance  that  he  may  desire  to  reach.  Cul- 
ross  had  requested  a  ticket  to  Chicago.  He 
naturally  said  Chicago.  In  the  long  color- 
less days  it  had  been  in  Chicago  that  all 
those  endlessly  repeated  scenes  had  been 
laid.  Walking  up  the  street  now  with  that 
wavering  ineffectual  gait,  these  scenes  came 
back  to  surge  in  his  brain  like  waters  cease- 
lessly tossed  in  a  wind-swept  basin. 

There  was  the  office,  bare  and  clean,  where 
the  young  stoop-shouldered  clerks  sat  writ- 
ing. In  their  faces  was  a  strange  resem- 
blance, just  as  there  was  in  the  backs  of  the 
ledgers,  and  in  the  endless  bills  on  the 
spindles.  If  one  of  them  laughed,  it  was 
not  with  gayety,  but  with  gratification  at 
the  discomfiture  of  another.  None  of  them 
ate  well.  None  of  them  were  rested  after 
sleep.  All  of  them  rode  on  the  stuffy  one- 
horse  cars  to  and  from  their  work.  Sun- 
days they  lay  in  bed  very  late,  and  ate  more 
dinner  than  they  could  digest.  There  was 
a  certain  fellowship  among  them,  —  such  fel- 


A  Resuscitation  123 

lowship  as  a  band  of  captives  among  canni- 
bals might  feel,  each  of  them  waiting  with 
vital  curiosity  to  see  who  was  the  next  to  be 
eaten.  But  of  that  fellowship  that  plans  in 
unison,  suffers  in  sympathy,  enjoys  vicari- 
ously, strengthens  into  friendship  and  com- 
munion of  soul  they  knew  nothing.  Indeed, 
such  camaraderie  would  have  been  disap- 
proved of  by  the  Head  Clerk.  He  would 
have  looked  on  an  emotion  with  exactly  the 
same  displeasure  that  he  would  on  an  error 
in  the  footing  of  the  year's  accounts.  It  was 
tacitly  understood  that  one  reached  the 
proud  position  of  Head  Clerk  by  having  no 
emotions  whatever. 

Culross  did  not  remember  having  been 
born  with  a  pen  in  his  hand,  or  even  with  one 
behind  his  ear ;  but  certainly  from  the  day  he 
had  been  let  out  of  knickerbockers  his  con- 
stant companion  had  been  that  greatly  over- 
estimated article.  His  father  dying  at  a  time 
that  cut  short  David's  school-days,  he  went 
out  armed  with  his  new  knowledge  of  double- 
entry,  determined  to  make  a  fortune  and  a 
commercial  name.  Meantime,  he  lived  in  a 
suite  of  three  rooms  on  West  Madison  Street 


124          A  Mountain  Woman 

with  his  mother,  who  was  a  good  woman, 
and  lived  where  she  did  that  she  might 
be  near  her  favorite  meeting-house.  She 
prayed,  and  cooked  bad  dinners,  principally 
composed  of  dispiriting  pastry.  Her  idea 
of  house- keeping  was  to  keep  the  shades 
down,  whatever  happened ;  and  when  David 
left  home  in  the  evening  for  any  purpose  of 
pleasure,  she  wept.  David  persuaded  him- 
self that  he  despised  amusement,  and  went 
to  bed  each  night  at  half-past  nine  in  a 
folding  bedstead  in  the  front  room,  and,  by 
becoming  absolutely  stolid  from  mere  vege- 
tation, imagined  that  he  was  almost  fit  to  be 
a  Head  Clerk. 

Walking  down  the  street  now  after  the 
twenty  years,  thinking  of  these  dead  but  inno- 
cent days,  this  was  the  picture  he  saw ;  and  as 
he  reflected  upon  it,  even  the  despoiled  and 
desolate  years  just  passed  seemed  richer  by 
contrast. 

He  reached  the  station  thus  dreaming,  and 
found,  as  he  had  been  told  when  the  warden 
bade  him  good-by,  that  a  train  was  to  be  at 
hand  directly  bound  to  the  city.  A  few 
moments  later  he  was  on  that  train.  Well 


A  Resuscitation  125 

back  in  the  shadow,  and  out  of  sight  of  the 
other  passengers,  he  gave  himself  up  to  the 
enjoyment  of  the  comfortable  cushion.  He 
would  willingly  have  looked  from  the  win- 
dow,—  green  fields  were  new  and  wonderful; 
drifting  clouds  a  marvel;  men,  houses, horses, 
farms,  all  a  revelation,  —  but  those  haunting 
visions  were  at  him  again,  and  would  not 
leave  brain  or  eye  free  for  other  things. 

But  the  next  scene  had  warmer  tints.  It 
was  the  interior  of  a  rich  room,  —  crimson 
and  amber  fabrics,  flowers,  the  gleam  of  a 
statue  beyond  the  drapings ;  the  sound  of  a 
tender  piano  unflinging  a  familiar  melody, 
and  a  woman.  She  was  just  a  part  of  all  the 
luxury. 

He  himself,  very  timid  and  conscious  of 
his  awkwardness,  sat  near,  trying  barrenly 
to  get  some  of  his  thoughts  out  of  his  brain 
on  to  his  tongue. 

"  Strange,  is  n't  it,"  the  woman  broke  in 
on  her  own  music,  "  that  we  have  seen  each 
other  so  very  often  and  never  spoken?  I've 
often  thought  introductions  were  ridiculous. 
Fancy  seeing  a  person  year  in  and  year 
out,  and  really  knowing  all  about  him,  and 


126          A  Mountain  Woman 

being  perfectly  acquainted  with  his  name 
—  at  least  his  or  her  name,  you  know  —  and 
then  never  speaking!  Some  one  comes 
along,  and  says,  '  Miss  Le  Baron,  this  is  Mr. 
Culross,'  just  as  if  one  did  n't  know  that  all 
the  time  !  And  there  you  are  !  You  cease 
to  be  dumb  folks,  and  fall  to  talking,  and 
say  a  lot  of  things  neither  of  you  care  about, 
and  after  five  or  six  weeks  of  time  and  sun- 
dry meetings,  get  down  to  honestly  saying 
what  you  mean.  I  'm  so  glad  we  Ve  got 
through  with  that  first  stage,  and  can  say 
what  we  think  and  tell  what  we  really  like." 

Then  the  playing  began  again,  —  a  harp- 
like  intermingling  of  soft  sounds.  Zoe  Le 
Baron's  hands  were  very  girlish.  Every- 
thing about  her  was  unformed.  Even  her 
mind  was  so.  But  all  promised  a  full  com- 
pletion. The  voice,  the  shoulders,  the  smile, 
the  words,  the  lips,  the  arms,  the  whole 
mind  and  body,  were  rounding  to  maturity. 

"Why  do  you  never  come  to  church  in 
the  morning?"  asks  Miss  Le  Baron,  wheel- 
ing around  on  her  piano-stool  suddenly. 
"  You  are  only  there  at  night,  with  your 
mother." 


A  Resuscitation  127 

"  I  go  only  on  her  account,"  replies  David, 
truthfully.  "  In  the  morning  I  am  so  tired 
with  the  week's  work  that  I  rest  at  home. 
I  ought  to  go,  I  know." 

"  Yes,  you  ought,"  returns  the  young 
woman,  gravely.  "  It  does  n't  really  rest 
one  to  lie  in  bed  like  that.  I  Ve  tried  it  at 
boarding-school.  It  was  no  good  whatever." 

"  Should  you  advise  me,"  asks  David, 
in  a  confiding  tone,  "  to  arise  early  on 
Sunday  ? " 

The  girl  blushes  a  little.  "  By  all  means ! " 
she  cries,  her  eyes  twinkling,  "  and  —  and 
come  to  church.  Our  morning  sermons  are 
really  very  much  better  than  those  in  the 
evening."  And  she  plays  a  waltz,  and  what 
with  the  music  and  the  warmth  of  the  room 
and  the  perfume  of  the  roses,  a  something 
nameless  and  mystical  steals  over  the  poor 
clerk,  and  swathes  him  about  like  the  fumes 
of  opium.  They  are  alone.  The  silence  is 
made  deeper  by  that  rhythmic  unswelling 
of  sound.  As  the  painter  flushes  the  bare 
wall  into  splendor,  these  emotions  illumi- 
nated his  soul,  and  gave  to  it  that  high  cour- 
age that  comes  when  men  or  women  suddenly 


128          A  Mountain  Woman 

realize  that  each  life  has  its  significance,  — 
their  own  lives  no  less  than  the  lives  of 
others. 

The  man  sitting  there  in  the  shadow  in 
that  noisy  train  saw  in  his  vision  how  the 
lad  arose  and  moved,  like  one  under  a  spell, 
toward  the  piano.  He  felt  again  the  en- 
chantment of  the  music-ridden  quiet,  of  the 
perfume,  and  the  presence  of  the  woman. 

"Knowing  you  and  speaking  with  you 
have  not  made  much  difference  with  me," 
he  whispers,  drunk  on  the  new  wine  of 
passion,  "  for  I  have  loved  you  since  I  saw 
you  first.  And  though  it  is  so  sweet  to  hear 
you  speak,  your  voice  is  no  more  beautiful 
than  I  thought  it  would  be.  I  have  loved 
you  a  long  time,  and  I  want  to  know  —  " 

The  broken  man  in  the  shadow  remem- 
bered how  the  lad  stopped,  astonished  at  his 
boldness  and  his  fluency,  overcome  suddenly 
at  the  thought  of  what  he  was  saying.  The 
music  stopped  with  a  discord.  The  girl 
arose,  trembling  and  scarlet. 

"  I  would  not  have  believed  it  of  you," 
she  cries,  "  to  take  advantage  of  me  like 
this,  when  I  am  alone  —  and  —  everything. 


A  Resuscitation  129 

You  know  very  well  that  nothing  but  trouble 
could  come  to  either  of  us  from  your  telling 
me  a  thing  like  that." 

He  puts  his  hands  up  to  his  face  to  keep 
off  her  anger.  He  is  trembling  with 
confusion. 

Then  she  broke  in  penitently,  trying  to 
pull  his  hands  away  from  his  hot  face: 
"  Never  mind  !  I  know  you  did  n't  mean 
anything.  Be  good,  do,  and  don't  spoil  the 
lovely  times  we  have  together.  You  know 
very  well  father  and  mother  would  n't  let  us 
see  each  other  at  all  if  they  —  if  they  thought 
you  were  saying  anything  such  as  you  said 
just  now." 

"  Oh,  but  I  can't  help  it !  "  cries  the  boy, 
despairingly.  "  I  have  never  loved  anybody 
at  all  till  now.  I  don't  mean  not  another 
girl,  you  know.  But  you  are  the  first  being 
I  ever  cared  for.  I  sometimes  think  mother 
cares  for  me  because  I  pay  the  rent.  And 
the  office  —  you  can't  imagine  what  that  is 
like.  The  men  in  it  are  moving  corpses. 
They  're  proud  to  be  that  way,  and  so  was  I 
till  I  knew  you  and  learned  what  life  was  like. 
All  the  happy  moments  I  have  had  have 
9 


130          A  Mountain  Woman 

been  here.  Now,  if  you  tell  me  that  we  are 
not  to  care  for  each  other  —  " 

There  was  some  one  coming  down  the 
hall.  The  curtain  lifted.  A  middle-aged 
man  stood  there  looking  at  him. 

"  Culross,"  said  he,  "  I  'm  disappointed  in 
you.  I  did  n't  mean  to  listen,  but  I  could  n't 
help  hearing  what  you  said  just  now.  I 
don't  blame  you  particularly.  Young  men 
will  be  fools.  And  I  do  not  in  any  way 
mean  to  insult  you  when  I  tell  you  to  stop 
your  coming  here.  I  don't  want  to  see  you 
inside  this  door  again,  and  after  a  while  you 
will  thank  me  for  it.  You  have  taken  a 
very  unfair  advantage  of  my  invitation.  I 
make  allowances  for  your  youth." 

He  held  back  the  curtain  for  the  lad  to 
pass  out.  David  threw  a  miserable  glance 
at  the  girl.  She  was  standing  looking  at 
her  father  with  an  expression  that  David 
could  not  fathom.  He  went  into  the  hall, 
picked  up  his  hat,  and  walked  out  in 
silence. 

David  wondered  that  night,  walking  the 
chilly  streets  after  he  quitted  the  house,  and 
often,  often  afterward,  if  that  comfortable 


A  Resuscitation  131 

and  prosperous  gentleman,  safe  beyond  the 
perturbations  of  youth,  had  any  idea  of 
what  he  had  done.  How  could  he  know 
anything  of  the  black  monotony  of  the  life 
of  the  man  he  turned  from  his  door?  The 
"desk's  dead  wood"  and  all  its  hateful 
slavery,  the  dull  darkened  rooms  where  his 
mother  prosed  through  endless  evenings, 
the  bookless,  joyless,  hopeless  existence 
that  had  cramped  him  all  his  days  rose  up 
before  him,  as  a  stretch  of  unbroken  plain 
may  rise  before  a  lost  man  till  it  maddens 
him. 

The  bowed  man  in  the  car-seat  remem- 
bered with  a  flush  of  reminiscent  misery 
how  the  lad  turned  suddenly  in  his  walk 
and  entered  the  door  of  a  drinking-room 
that  stood  open.  It  was  very  comfortable 
within.  The  screens  kept  out  the  chill  of 
the  autumn  night,  the  sawdust-sprinkled 
floor  was  clean,  the  tables  placed  near 
together,  the  bar  glittering,  the  attendants 
white-aproned  and  brisk. 

David  liked  the  place,  and  he  liked  better 
still  the  laughter  that  came  from  a  room 
within.  It  had  a  note  in  it  a  little  different 


132          A  Mountain  Woman 

from  anything  he  had  ever  heard  before  in 
his  life,  and  one  that  echoed  his  mood.  He 
ventured  to  ask  if  he  might  go  into  the 
farther  room. 

It  does  not  mean  much  when  most  young 
men  go  to  a  place  like  this.  They  take 
their  bit  of  unwholesome  dissipation  quietly 
enough,  and  are  a  little  coarser  and  more 
careless  each  time  they  indulge  in  it,  perhaps. 
But  certainly  their  acts,  whatever  gradual 
deterioration  they  may  indicate,  bespeak  no 
sudden  moral  revolution.  With  this  young 
clerk  it  was  different.  He  was  a  worse  man 
from  the  moment  he  entered  the  door,  for 
he  did  violence  to  his  principles ;  he  killed 
his  self-respect. 

He  had  been  paid  at  the  office  that  night, 
and  he  had  the  money  —  a  week's  miserable 
pittance  —  in  his  pocket.  His  every  action 
revealed  the  fact  that  he  was  a  novice  in 
recklessness.  His  innocent  face  piqued  the 
men  within.  They  gave  him  a  welcome 
that  amazed  him.  Of  course  the  rest  of  the 
evening  was  a  chaos  to  him.  The  throat 
down  which  he  poured  the  liquor  was  as 
tender  as  a  child's.  The  men  turned  his 


A  Resuscitation  133 

head  with  their  ironical  compliments.  Their 
boisterous  good-fellowship  was  as  intoxicat- 
ing to  this  poor  young  recluse  as  the  liquor. 

It  was  the  revulsion  from  this  feeling, 
when  he  came  to  a  consciousness  that  the 
men  were  laughing  at  him  and  not  with 
him,  that  wrecked  his  life.  He  had  gone 
from  beer  to  whiskey,  and  from  whiskey  to 
brandy,  by  this  time,  at  the  suggestion  of 
the  men,  and  was  making  awkward  lunges 
with  a  billiard  cue,  spurred  on  by  the  mock- 
ing applause  of  the  others.  One  young 
fellow  was  particularly  hilarious  at  his 
expense.  His  jokes  became  insults,  or  so 
they  seemed  to  David. 

A  quarrel  followed,  half  a  jest  on  the  part 
of  the  other,  all  serious  as  far  as  David  was 
concerned.  And  then —  Well,  who  could 
tell  how  it  happened  ?  The  billiard  cue  was 
in  David's  hand,  and  the  skull  of  the  jester 
was  split,  a  horrible  gaping  thing,  revolt- 
ingly  animal. 

David  never  saw  his  home  again.  His 
mother  gave  it  out  in  church  that  her  heart 
was  broken,  and  she  wrote  a  letter  to  David 
begging  him  to  reform.  She  said  she 


134          A  Mountain  Woman 

would  never  cease  to  pray  for  him,  that 
he  might  return  to  grace.  He  had  an 
attorney,  an  impecunious  and  very  aged 
gentleman,  whose  life  was  a  venerable 
failure,  and  who  talked  so  much  about  his 
personal  inconveniences  from  indigestion 
that  he  forgot  to  take  a  very  keen  interest 
in  the  concerns  of  his  client.  David's  trial 
made  no  sensation.  He  did  not  even  have 
the  cheap  sympathy  of  the  morbid.  The 
court-room  was  almost  empty  the  dull 
spring  day  when  the  east  wind  beat  against 
the  window,  jangling  the  loose  panes  all 
through  the  reading  of  the  verdict. 

Twenty  years ! 

Twenty  years  in  the  penitentiary  ! 

David  looked  up  at  the  judge  and  smiled. 
Men  have  been  known  to  smile  that  way 
when  the  car-wheel  crashes  over  their  legs, 
or  a  bullet  lets  the  air  through  their  lungs. 

All  that  followed  would  have  seemed 
more  terrible  if  it  had  not  appeared  to  be 
so  remote.  David  had  to  assure  himself 
over  and  over  that  it  was  really  he  who  was 
put  in  that  disgraceful  dress,  and  locked  in 
that  shameful  walk  from  corridor  to  work- 


A  Resuscitation  135 

room,  from  work-room  to  chapel.  The  work 
was  not  much  more  monotonous  than  that 
to  which  he  had  been  accustomed  in  the 
office.  Here,  as  there,  one  was  reproved 
for  not  doing  the  required  amount,  but  never 
praised  for  extraordinary  efforts.  Here,  as 
there,  the  workers  regarded  each  other  with 
dislike  and  suspicion.  Here,  as  there,  work 
was  a  penalty  and  not  a  pleasure. 

It  is  the  nights  that  are  to  be  dreaded  in 
a  penitentiary.  Speech  eases  the  brain  of 
free  men ;  but  the  man  condemned  to  eter- 
nal silence  is  bound  to  endure  torments. 
Thought,  which  might  be  a  diversion,  be- 
comes a  curse ;  it  is  a  painful  disease  which 
becomes  chronic.  It  does  not  take  long  to 
forget  the  days  of  the  week  and  the  months 
of  the  year  when  time  brines  no  variance. 
David  drugged  himself  on  dreams.  He 
knew  it  was  weakness,  but  it  was  the  wine 
of  forgetfulness,  and  he  indulged  in  it.  He 
went  over  and  over,  in  endless  repetition, 
every  scene  in  which  Zoe  Le  Baron  had 
figured. 

He  learned  by  a  paper  that  she  had  gone 
to  Europe.  He  was  glad  of  that.  For  there 


136          A  Mountain  Woman 

were  hours  in  which  he  imagined  that  his 
fate  might  have  caused  her  distress  —  not 
much,  of  course,  but  perhaps  an  occasional 
hour  of  sympathetic  regret.  But  it  was 
pleasanter  not  to  think  of  that.  He  pre- 
ferred to  remember  the  hours  they  had 
spent  together  while  she  was  teaching  him 
the  joy  of  life. 

How  lovely  her  gray  eyes  were !  Deep, 
yet  bright,  and  full  of  silent  little  speeches. 
The  rooms  in  which  he  imagined  her  as 
moving  were  always  splendid;  the  gowns 
she  wore  were  of  rustling  silk.  He  never  in 
any  dream,  waking  or  sleeping,  associated 
her  with  poverty  or  sorrow  or  pain.  Gay 
and  beautiful,  she  moved  from  city  to  city, 
in  these  visions  of  David's,  looking  always 
at  wonderful  things,  and  finding  laughter  in 
every  happening. 

It  was  six  months  after  his  entrance  into 
his  silent  abode  that  a  letter  came  for  him. 

"  By  rights,  Culross,"  said  the  warden,  "  I 
should  not  give  this  letter  to  you.  It  is  n't 
the  sort  we  approve  of.  But  you  're  in  for 
a  good  spell,  and  if  there  is  anything  that 
can  make  life  seem  more  tolerable,  I  don't 


A  Resuscitation  137 

know  but  you're  entitled  to  it.     At  least, 
I  'm  not  the  man  to  deny  it  to  you." 
This  was  the  letter:  — 

"  MY  DEAR  FRIEND,  —  I  hope  you  do  not 
think  that  all  these  months,  when  you  have 
been  suffering  so  terribly,  I  have  been  think- 
ing of  other  things !  But  I  am  sure  you 
know  the  truth.  You  know  that  I  could 
not  send  you  word  or  come  to  see  you,  or 
I  would  have  done  it.  When  I  first  heard  of 
what  you  had  done,  I  saw  it  all  as  it  hap- 
pened, —  that  dreadful  scene,  I  mean,  in  the 
saloon.  I  am  sure  I  have  imagined  every- 
thing just  as  it  was.  I  begged  papa  to  help 
you,  but  he  was  very  angry.  You  see, 
papa  was  so  peculiar.  He  thought  more 
of  the  appearances  of  things,  perhaps,  than 
of  facts.  It  infuriated  him  to  think  of  me 
as  being  concerned  about  you  or  with  you. 
I  did  not  know  he  could  be  so  angry,  and 
his  anger  did  not  die,  but  for  days  it  cast 
such  a  shadow  over  me  that  I  used  to  wish 
I  was  dead.  Only  I  would  not  disobey  him, 
and  now  I  am  glad  of  that.  We  were  in 
France  three  months,  and  then,  coming  home, 


138          A  Mountain  Woman 

papa  died.  It  was  on  the  voyage.  I  wish 
he  had  asked  me  to  forgive  him,  for  then 
I  think  I  could  have  remembered  him  with 
more  tenderness.  But  he  did  nothing  of 
the  kind.  He  did  not  seem  to  think  he  had 
done  wrong  in  any  way,  though  I  feel  that 
some  way  we  might  have  saved  you.  I  am 
back  here  in  Chicago  in  the  old  home.  But 
I  shall  not  stay  in  this  house.  It  is  so  large 
and  lonesome,  and  I  always  see  you  and 
father  facing  each  other  angrily  there  in  the 
parlor  when  I  enter  it  So  I  am  going  to 
get  me  some  cosey  rooms  in  another  part  of 
the  city,  and  take  my  aunt,  who  is  a  sweet 
old  lady,  to  live  with  me ;  and  I  am  going 
to  devote  my  time  —  all  of  it  —  and  all  of  my 
brains  to  getting  you  out  of  that  terrible 
place.  What  is  the  use  of  telling  me  that 
you  are  a  murderer?  Do  I  not  know  you 
could  not  be  brought  to  hurt  anything? 
I  suppose  you  must  have  killed  that  poor 
man,  but  then  it  was  not  you,  it  was  that 
dreadful  drink  —  it  was  Me  !  That  is  what 
continually  haunts  me.  If  I  had  been  a 
braver  girl,  and  spoken  the  words  that  were 
in  my  heart,  you  would  not  have  gone  into 


A  Resuscitation  139 

that  place.  You  would  be  innocent  to-day. 
It  was  I  who  was  responsible  for  it  all.  I 
let  father  kill  your  heart  right  there  before 
me,  and  never  said  a  word.  Yet  I  knew 
how  it  was  with  you,  and  —  this  is  what  I 
ought  to  have  said  then,  and  what  I  must 
say  now — and  all  the  time  I  felt  just  as 
you  did.  I  thought  I  should  die  when  I 
saw  you  go  away,  and  knew  you  would 
never  come  back  again.  Only  I  was  so 
selfish,  I  was  so  wicked,  I  would  say  nothing. 

"  I  have  no  right  to  be  comfortable  and 
hopeful,  and  to  have  friends,  with  you  shut 
up  from  liberty  and  happiness.  I  will  not 
have  those  comfortable  rooms,  after  all. 
I  will  live  as  you  do.  I  will  live  alone 
in  a  bare  room.  For  it  is  I  who  am  guilty ! 
And  then  I  will  feel  that  I  also  am  being 
punished. 

"Do  you  hate  me?  Perhaps  my  telling 
you  now  all  these  things,  and  that  I  felt 
toward  you  just  as  you  did  toward  me,  will 
not  make  you  happy.  For  it  may  be  that 
you  despise  me. 

"  Anyway,  I  have  told  you  the  truth  now. 
I  will  go  as  soon  as  I  hear  from  you  to  a 


140          A  Mountain  Woman 

lawyer,  and  try  to  find  out  how  you  may  be 
liberated.  I  am  sure  it  can  be  done  when 
the  facts  are  known. 

"  Poor  boy !  How  I  do  hope  you  have 
known  in  your  heart  that  I  was  not  for- 
getting you.  Indeed,  day  or  night,  I  have 
thought  of  nothing  else.  Now  I  am  free  to 
help  you.  And  be  sure,  whatever  happens, 
that  I  am  working  for  you. 

"ZoE  LE  BARON." 

That  was  all.  Just  a  girlish,  constrained 
letter,  hardly  hinting  at  the  hot  tears  that 
had  been  shed  for  many  weary  nights,  coyly 
telling  of  the  impatient  young  love  and  all 
the  maidenly  shame. 

David  permitted  himself  to  read  it  only 
once.  Then  a  sudden  resolution  was  born  — 
a  heroic  one.  Before  he  got  the  letter  he 
was  a  crushed  and  unsophisticated  boy; 
when  he  had  read  it,  and  absorbed  its  full 
significance,  he  became  suddenly  a  man, 
capable  of  a  great  sacrifice. 

"  I  return  your  letter,"  he  wrote,  without 
superscription,  "  and  thank  you  for  your 
anxiety  about  me.  But  the  truth  is,  I  had 


A   Resuscitation  141 

forgotten  all  about  you  in  my  trouble.  You 
were  not  in  the  least  to  blame  for  what  hap- 
pened. I  might  have  known  I  would  come 
to  such  an  end.  You  thought  I  was  good, 
of  course ;  but  it  is  not  easy  to  find  out  the 
life  of  a  young  man.  It  is  rather  mortifying 
to  have  a  private  letter  sent  here,  because 
the  warden  reads  them  all.  I  hope  you  will 
enjoy  yourself  this  winter,  and  hasten  to 
forget  one  who  had  certainly  forgotten  you 
till  reminded  by  your  letter,  which  I  return. 
"  Respectfully, 

"  DAVID  CULROSS." 

That  night  some  deep  lines  came  into 
his  face  which  never  left  it,  and  which  made 
him  look  like  a  man  of  middle  age. 

He  never  doubted  that  his  plan  would 
succeed ;  that,  piqued  and  indignant  at  his 
ingratitude,  she  would  hate  him,  and  in  a 
little  time  forget  he  ever  lived,  or  remember 
him  only  to  blush  with  shame  at  her  past 
association  with  him.  He  saw  her  happy, 
loved,  living  the  usual  life  of  women,  with 
all  those  things  that  make  life  rich. 

For  there  in  the  solitude  an  understand- 


142          A  Mountain  Woman 

ing  of  deep  things  came  to  him.  He  who 
thought  never  to  have  a  wife  grew  to  know 
what  the  joy  of  it  must  be.  He  perceived 
all  the  subtle  rapture  of  wedded  souls.  He 
learned  what  the  love  of  children  was,  the 
pride  of  home,  the  unselfish  ambition  for 
success  that  spurs  men  on.  All  the  emo- 
tions passed  in  procession  at  night  before 
him,  tricked  out  in  palpable  forms. 

A  burst  of  girlish  tears  would  dissipate 
whatever  lingering  pity  Zoe  felt  for  him. 
How  often  he  said  that !  With  her  sensi- 
tiveness she  would  be  sure  to  hate  a  man 
who  had  mortified  her. 

So  he  fell  to  dreaming  of  her  again  as 
moving  among  happy  and  luxurious  scenes, 
exquisitely  clothed,  with  flowers  on  her 
bosom  and  jewels  on  her  neck;  and  he  saw 
men  loving  her,  and  was  glad,  and  saw  her 
at  last  loving  the  best  of  them,  and  told 
himself  in  the  silence  of  the  night  that 
it  was  as  he  wished. 

Yet  always,  always,  from  weary  week  to 
weary  week,  he  rehearsed  the  scenes.  They 
were  his  theatre,  his  opera,  his  library,  his 
lecture  hall. 


A  Resuscitation  143 

He  rehearsed  them  again  there  on  the 
cars.  He  never  wearied  of  them.  To  be 
sure,  other  thoughts  had  come  to  him  at 
night.  Much  that  to  most  men  seems  com- 
plex and  puzzling  had  grown  to  appear 
simple  to  him.  In  a  way  his  brain  had 
quickened  and  deepened  through  the  years 
of  solitude.  He  had  thought  out  a  great 
many  things.  He  had  read  a  few  good 
books  and  digested  them,  and  the  visions  in 
his  heart  had  kept  him  from  being  bitter. 

Yet,  suddenly  confronted  with  liberty, 
turned  loose  like  a  pastured  colt,  without 
master  or  rein,  he  felt  only  confusion  and 
dismay.  He  might  be  expected  to  feel  ex- 
ultation. He  experienced  only  fright.  It 
is  precisely  the  same  with  the  liberated  colt. 

The  train  pulled  into  a  bustling  station, 
in  which  the  multitudinous  noises  were 
thrown  back  again  from  the  arched  iron 
roof.  The  relentless  haste  of  all  the  people 
was  inexpressibly  cruel  to  the  man  who 
looked  from  the  window  wondering  whither 
he  would  go,  and  if,  among  all  the  thousands 
that  made  up  that  vast  and  throbbing  city, 
he  would  ever  find  a  friend. 


144          A  Mountain  Woman 

For  a  moment  David  longed  even  for 
that  unmaternal  mother  who  had  forgotten 
him  in  the  hour  of  his  distress ;  but  she  had 
been  dead  for  many  years. 

The  train  stopped.  Every  one  got  out. 
David  forced  himself  to  his  feet  and  followed. 
He  had  been  driven  back  into  the  world. 
It  would  have  seemed  less  terrible  to  have 
been  driven  into  a  desert.  He  walked 
toward  the  great  iron  gates,  seeing  the 
people  and  hearing  the  noises  confusedly. 

As  he  entered  the  space  beyond  the  grat- 
ing some  one  caught  him  by  the  arm.  It 
was  a  little  middle-aged  woman  in  plain 
clothes,  and  with  sad  gray  eyes. 

"  Is  this  David  ?  "  said  she. 

He  did  not  speak,  but  his  face  answered 
her. 

"  I  knew  you  were  coming  to-day.  I  Ve 
waited  all  these  years,  David.  You  did  n't 
think  I  believed  what  you  said  in  that  letter 
did  you?  This  way,  David,  —  this  is  the 
way  home." 


Two  Pioneers 


10 


Two  Pioneers 


IT  was  the  year  of  the  small-pox.  The 
Pawnees  had  died  in  their  cold  tepees 
by  the  fifties,  the  soldiers  lay  dead  in  the 
trenches  without  the  fort,  and  many  a  gay 
French  voyageur,  who  had  thought  to  go 
singing  down  the  Missouri  on  his  fur-laden 
raft  in  the  springtime,  would  never  again 
see  the  lights  of  St.  Louis,  or  the  coin  of 
the  mighty  Choteau  company. 

It  had  been  a  winter  of  tragedies.  The 
rigors  of  the  weather  and  the  scourge  of 
the  disease  had  been  fought  with  Indian 
charm  and  with  Catholic  prayer.  Both 
were  equally  unavailing.  If  a  man  was 
taken  sick  at  the  fort  they  put  him  in  a 
warm  room,  brought  him  a  jug  of  water 
once  a  day,  and  left  him  to  find  out  what  his 
constitution  was  worth.  Generally  he  re- 
covered ;  for  the  surgeon's  supplies  had 


148          A  Mountain  Woman 

been  exhausted  early  in  the  year.  But  the 
Indians,  in  their  torment,  rushed  into  the 
river  through  the  ice,  and  returned  to  roll 
themselves  in  their  blankets  and  die  in 
ungroaning  stoicism. 

Every  one  had  grown  bitter  and  hard. 
The  knives  of  the  trappers  were  sharp,  and 
not  one  whit  sharper  than  their  tempers. 
Some  one  said  that  the  friendly  Pawnees 
were  conspiring  with  the  Sioux,  who  were 
always  treacherous,  to  sack  the  settlement. 
The  trappers  doubted  this.  They  and  the 
Pawnees  had  been  friends  many  years,  and 
they  had  together  killed  the  Sioux  in  four 
famous  battles  on  the  Platte.  Yet  —  who 
knows?  There  was  pestilence  in  the  air, 
and  it  had  somehow  got  into  men's  souls  as 
well  as  their  bodies. 

So,  at  least,  Father  de  Smet  said.  He 
alone  did  not  despair.  He  alone  tried 
neither  charm  nor  curse.  He  dressed  him 
an  altar  in  the  wilderness,  and  he  prayed  at 
it — but  not  for  impossible  things.  When 
in  a  day's  journey  you  come  across  two 
lodges  of  Indians,  sixty  souls  in  each,  lying 
dead  and  distorted  from  the  plague  in  their 


Two  Pioneers  149 

desolate  tepees,  you  do  not  pray,  if  you  are 
a  man  like  Father  de  Smet.  You  go  on  to 
the  next  lodge  where  the  living  yet  are,  and 
teach  them  how  to  avoid  death. 

Besides,  when  you  are  young,  it  is  much 
easier  to  act  than  to  pray.  When  the  chil- 
dren cried  for  food,  Father  de  Smet  took 
down  the  rifle  from  the  wall  and  went  out 
with  it,  coming  back  only  when  he  could 
feed  the  hungry.  There  were  places  where 
the  prairie  was  black  with  buffalo,  and  the 
shy  deer  showed  their  delicate  heads  among 
the  leafless  willows  of  the  Papillion.  When 
they  —  the  children  —  were  cold,  this  young 
man  brought  in  baskets  of  buffalo  chips 
from  the  prairie  and  built  them  a  fire,  or  he 
hung  more  skins  up  at  the  entrance  to  the 
tepees.  If  he  wanted  to  cross  a  river  and 
had  no  boat  at  hand,  he  leaped  the  uncertain 
ice,  or,  in  clear  current,  swam,  with  his 
clothes  on  his  head  in  a  bundle. 

A  wonderful  traveller  for  the  time  was 
Father  de  Smet.  Twice  he  had  gone  as  far 
as  the  land  of  the  Flathead  nation,  and  he 
could  climb  mountain  passes  as  well  as  any 
guide  of  the  Rockies.  He  had  built  a  dozen 


150  A  Mountain  Woman 

missions,  lying  all  the  way  from  the  Colum- 
bia to  the  Kaw.  He  had  always  a  jest  at 
his  tongue's  end,  and  served  it  out  with  as 
much  readiness  as  a  prayer;  and  he  had, 
withal,  an  arm  trained  to  do  execution. 
Every  man  on  the  plains  understood  the 
art  of  self-preservation.  Even  in  Cainsville, 
over  by  the  council  ground  of  the  western 
tribes,  which  was  quite  the  most  civilized 
place  for  hundreds  of  miles,  life  was  uncer- 
tain when  the  boats  came  from  St.  Louis 
with  bad  whiskey  in  their  holds.  But  no  one 
dared  take  liberties  with  the  holy  father. 
The  thrust  from  his  shoulder  was  straight 
and  sure,  and  his  fist  was  hard. 

Yet  it  was  not  the  sinner  that  Father  de 
Smet  meant  to  crush.  He  always  supple- 
mented his  acts  of  physical  prowess  with 
that  explanation.  It  was  the  sin  that  he 
struck  at  from  the  shoulder  —  and  may  not 
even  an  anointed  one  strike  at  sin? 

Father  de  Smet  could  draw  a  fine  line, 
too,  between  the  things  which  were  bad  in 
themselves,  and  the  things  which  were  only 
extrinsically  bad.  For  example,  there  were 
the  soups  of  Mademoiselle  Ninon.  Mam'selle 


Two  Pioneers 

herself  was  not  above  reproach,  but  her  soups 
were.     Mademoiselle    Ninon   was  the  only 
Parisian  thing  in  the  settlement.     And  she 
was  certainly  to  be  avoided  —  which  was  per- 
haps the  reason  that  no  one  avoided  her.     It 
was  four  years  since  she  had  seen  Paris.    She 
was  sixteen  then,  and  she  followed  the  for- 
tunes of  a  certain  adventurer  who  found  it 
advisable  to  sail  for  Montreal.     Ninon  had 
been  bored  back  in  Paris,  it  being  dull  in  the 
mantua-making  shop  of  Madame  Guittar.    If 
she  had  been  a  man  she  would  have  taken 
to  navigation,  and  might  have  made  herself 
famous  by  sailing  to  some  unknown  part  of 
the  New  World.    Being  a  woman,  she  took  a 
lover  who  was  going  to  New  France,  and  for- 
got to  weep  when  he  found  an  early  and  vio- 
lent death.     And  there  were  others  at  hand, 
and  Ninon  sailed  around  the  cold  blue  lakes, 
past    Sault  St.   Marie,  and  made   her  way 
across  the  portages  to  the  Mississippi,  and 
so  down  to  the  sacred  rock  of  St.  Louis. 
That  was  a  merry  place.     Ninon  had  fault 
to  find  neither  with  the  wine  nor  the  dances. 
They  were  all  that  one  could  have  desired, 
and  there   was  no  limit  to  either  of  them. 


152  A  Mountain  Woman 

But  still,  after  a  time,  even  this  grew  tire- 
some to  one  of  Ninon's  spirit,  and  she  took 
the  first  opportunity  to  sail  up  the  Missouri 
with  a  certain  young  trapper  connected  with 
the  great  fur  company,  and  so  found  her- 
self at  Cainsville,  with  the  blue  bluffs  rising 
to  the  east  of  her,  and  the  low  white 
stretches  of  the  river  flats  undulating  down 
to  where  the  sluggish  stream  wound  its  way 
southward  capriciously. 

Ninon  soon  tired  of  her  trapper.  For 
one  thing  she  found  out  that  he  was  a 
coward.  She  saw  him  run  once  in  a  buffalo 
fight.  That  was  when  the  Pawnee  stood 
still  with  a  blanket  stretched  wide  in  a  gaudy 
square,  and  caught  the  head  of  the  mad 
animal  fairly  in  the  tough  fabric;  his  mus- 
tang's legs  trembled  under  him,  but  he  did 
not  move,  —  for  a  mustang  is  the  soul  of  an 
Indian,  and  obeys  each  thought;  the  Indian 
himself  felt  his  heart  pounding  at  his  ribs ; 
but  once  with  that  garment  fast  over  the 
baffled  eyes  of  the  struggling  brute,  the 
rest  was  only  a  matter  of  judicious  knife- 
thrusts.  Ninon  saw  this.  She  rode  past 
her  lover,  and  snatched  the  twisted  bullion 


Two  Pioneers  153 

cord  from  his  hat  that  she  had  braided  and 
put  there,  and  that  night  she  tied  it  on  the 
hat  of  the  Pawnee  who  had  killed  the  buffalo. 

The  Pawnees  were  rather  proud  of  the 
episode,  and  as  for  the  Frenchmen,  they  did 
not  mind.  The  French  have  always  been 
very  adaptable  in  America.  Ninon  was 
universally  popular. 

And  so  were  her  soups. 

Every  man  has  his  price.  Father  de 
Smet's  was  the  soups  of  Mademoiselle  Ninon. 
Fancy!  If  you  have  an  educated  palate  and 
are  obliged  to  eat  the  strong  distillation  of 
buffalo  meat,  cooked  in  a  pot  which  has 
been  wiped  out  with  the  greasy  petticoat  of 
a  squaw!  When  Ninon  came  down  from 
St.  Louis  she  brought  with  her  a  great 
box  containing  neither  clothes,  furniture, 
nor  trinkets,  but  something  much  more 
wonderful !  It  was  a  marvellous  compound- 
ing of  spices  and  seasonings.  The  aromatic 
liquids  she  set  before  the  enchanted  men  of 
the  settlement  bore  no  more  relation  to 
ordinary  buffalo  soup  than  Chateaubrand's 
Indian  maidens  did  to  one  of  the  Paw- 
nee girls,  who  slouched  about  the  settle- 


154          A  Mountain  Woman 

ment  with  noxious  tresses  and  sullen  slavish 
coquetries. 

Father  de  Smet  would  not  at  any  time 
have  called  Ninon  a  scarlet  woman.  But 
when  he  ate  the  dish  of  soup  or  tasted  the 
hot  corn-cakes  that  she  invariably  invited 
him  to  partake  of  as  he  passed  her  little 
house,  he  refrained  with  all  the  charity  of 
a  true  Christian  and  an  accomplished  epicure 
from  even  thinking  her  such.  And  he  re- 
membered the  words  of  the  Saviour,  "  Let 
him  who  is  without  sin  among  you  cast  the 
first  stone." 

To  Father  de  Smet's  healthy  nature 
nothing  seemed  more  superfluous  than  sin. 
And  he  was  averse  to  thinking  that  any 
committed  deeds  of  which  he  need  be 
ashamed.  So  it  was  his  habit,  especially  if 
the  day  was  pleasant  and  his  own  thoughts 
happy,  to  say  to  himself  when  he  saw  one 
of  the  wild  young  trappers  leaving  the  cabin 
of  Mademoiselle  Ninon :  "  He  has  been 
for  some  of  the  good  woman's  hot  cakes," 
till  he  grew  quite  to  believe  that  the  only 
attractions  that  the  adroit  Frenchwoman 
possessed  were  of  a  gastronomic  nature. 


Two  Pioneers  155 

To  tell  the  truth,  the  attractions  of  Made- 
moiselle Ninon  were  varied.  To  begin 
with,  she  was  the  only  thing  in  that  wilder- 
ness to  suggest  home.  Ninon  had  a  genius 
for  home-making.  Her  cabin,  in  which  she 
cooked,  slept,  ate,  lived,  had  become  a 
boudoir. 

The  walls  were  hung  with  rare  and  beau- 
tiful skins;  the  very  floor  made  rich  with 
huge  bear  robes,  their  permeating  odors 
subdued  by  heavy  perfumes  brought,  like 
the  spices,  from  St.  Louis.  The  bed,  in  day- 
time, was  a  couch  of  beaver-skins ;  the  fire- 
place had  branching  antlers  above  it,  on 
which  were  hung  some  of  the  evidences  of 
the  fair  Ninon's  coquetry,  such  as  silken 
scarfs,  of  the  sort  the  voyageurs  from  the 
far  north  wore ;  and  necklaces  made  by  the 
Indians  of  the  Pacific  coast  and  brought  to 
Ninon  by  —  but  it  is  not  polite  to  inquire 
into  these  matters.  There  were  little  moc- 
casins also,  much  decorated  with  porcupine- 
quills,  one  pair  of  which  Father  de  Smet 
had  brought  from  the  Flathead  nation,  and 
presented  to  Ninon  that  time  when  she 
nursed  him  through  a  frightful  run  of  fever. 


156  A  Mountain  Woman 

She  would  take  no  money  for  her  patient 
services. 

"  Father,"  said  she,  gravely,  when  he 
offered  it  to  her,  "  I  am  not  myself  virtuous. 
But  I  have  the  distinction  of  having  pre- 
served the  only  virtuous  creature  in  the 
settlement  for  further  usefulness.  Some- 
times, perhaps,  you  will  pray  for  Ninon." 

Father  de  Smet  never  forgot  those  prayers. 

These  were  wild  times,  mind  you.  No 
use  to  keep  your  skirts  coldly  clean  if  you 
wished  to  be  of  help.  These  men  were  sub- 
duing a  continent.  Their  primitive  qualities 
came  out.  Courage,  endurance,  sacrifice, 
suffering  without  complaint,  friendship  to 
the  death,  indomitable  hatred,  unfaltering 
hope,  deep-seated  greed,  splendid  gayety 
—  it  takes  these  things  to  subdue  a  conti- 
nent. Vice  is  also  an  incidental,  —  that  is 
to  say,  what  one  calls  vice.  This  is  because 
it  is  the  custom  to  measure  these  men  as  if 
they  were  governed  by  the  laws  of  civili- 
zation, where  there  is  neither  law  nor 
civilization. 

This  much  is  certain:  gentlemen  cannot 
conquer  a  country.  They  tried  gentlemen 


Two  Pioneers 


'57 


back  in  Virginia,  and  they  died,  partly  from 
lack  of  intellect,  but  mostly  from  lack  of 
energy.  After  the  yeomen  have  fought  the 
conquering  fight,  it  is  well  enough  to  bring 
in  gentlemen,  who  are  sometimes  clever 
lawmakers,  and  who  look  well  on  thrones 
or  in  presidential  chairs. 

But  to  return  to  the  winter  of  the  small- 
pox. It  was  then  that  the  priest  and  Ninon 
grew  to  know  each  other  well.  They  be- 
came acquainted  first  in  the  cabin  where 
four  of  the  trappers  lay  tossing  in  delirium. 
The  horrible  smell  of  disease  weighted  the 
air.  Outside  wet  snow  fell  continuously 
and  the  clouds  seemed  to  rest  only  a  few 
feet  above  the  sullen  bluffs.  The  room  was 
bare  of  comforts,  and  very  dirty.  Ninon 
looked  about  with  disgust. 

"  You  pray,"  said  she  to  the  priest,  "  and 
I  will  clean  the  room." 

"Not  so,"  returned  the  broad-shouldered 
father,  smilingly,  "  we  will  both  clean  the 
room."  Thus  it  came  that  they  scrubbed 
the  floor  together,  and  made  the  chimney 
so  that  it  would  not  smoke,  and  washed  the 
blankets  on  the  beds,  and  kept  the  wood- 


158  A  Mountain  Woman 

pile  high.  They  also  devised  ventilators, 
and  let  in  fresh  air  without  exposing  the 
patients.  They  had  no  medicine,  but  they 
continually  rubbed  the  suffering  men  with 
bear's  grease. 

"  It 's  better  than  medicine,"  said  Ninon, 
after  the  tenth  day,  as,  wan  with  watching,  she 
held  the  cool  hand  of  one  of  the  recovering 
men  in  her  own.  "  If  we  had  had  medicines 
we  should  have  killed  these  men." 

"  You  are  a  woman  of  remarkable  sense," 
said  the  holy  father,  who  was  eating  a  dish 
of  corn-meal  and  milk  that  Ninon  had  just 
prepared,  "  and  a  woman  also  of  Christian 
courage." 

"Christian  courage?"  echoed  Ninon;  "do 
you  think  that  is  what  you  call  it?  I  am 
not  afraid,  no,  not  I ;  but  it  is  not  Christian 
courage.  You  mistake  in  calling  it  that." 
There  were  tears  in  her  eyes.  The  priest 
saw  them. 

"  God  lead  you  at  last  into  peaceful  ways," 
said  he,  softly,  lifting  one  hand  in  blessing. 
"Your  vigil  is  ended.  Go  to  your  home 
and  sleep.  You  know  the  value  of  the 
temporal  life  that  God  has  given  to  man. 


Two  Pioneers  159 

In  the  hours  of  the  night,  Ninon,  think  of 
the  value  of  eternal  life,  which  it  is  also 
His  to  give." 

Ninon  stared  at  him  a  moment  with  a 
dawning  horror  in  her  eyes. 

Then  she  pointed  to  the  table. 

"Whatever  you  do,"  said  she,  "don't 
forget  the  bear's  grease."  And  she  went 
out  laughing.  The  priest  did  not  pause 
to  recommend  her  soul  to  further  blessing. 
He  obeyed  her  directions. 

March  was  wearing  away  tediously.  The 
river  was  not  yet  open,  and  the  belated 
boats  with  needed  supplies  were  moored 
far  down  the  river.  Many  of  the  reduced 
settlers  were  dependent  on  the  meat  the 
Indians  brought  them  for  sustenance.  The 
mud  made  the  roads  almost  impassable ;  for 
the  frost  lay  in  a  solid  bed  six  inches  below 
the  surface,  and  all  above  that  was  semi- 
liquid  muck.  Snow  and  rain  alternated, 
and  the  frightful  disease  did  not  cease  its 
ravages. 

The  priest  got  little  sleep.  Now  he  was 
at  the  bed  of  a  little  half-breed  child, 
smoothing  the  straight  black  locks  from 


160  A  Mountain  Woman 

the  narrow  brow;  now  at  the  cot  of  some 
hulking  trapper,  who  wept  at  the  pain,  but 
died  finally  with  a  grin  of  bravado  on  his 
lips ;  now  in  a  foul  tepee,  where  some  grave 
Pawnee  wrapped  his  mantle  about  him,  and 
gazed  with  prophetic  and  unflinching  eyes 
into  the  land  of  the  hereafter. 

The  little  school  that  the  priest  started 
had  been  long  since  abandoned.  It  was  only 
the  preservation  of  life  that  one  thought  of 
in  these  days.  And  recklessness  had  made 
the  men  desperate.  To  the  ravages  of  dis- 
ease were  added  horrible  murders.  Moral 
health  is  always  low  when  physical  health 
is  so. 

Give  a  nation  two  winters  of  grippe,  and 
it  will  have  an  epidemic  of  suicide.  Give 
it  starvation  and  small-pox,  and  it  will  have 
a  contagion  of  murders.  There  are  subtle 
laws  underlying  these  things,  —  laws  which 
the  physicians  think  they  can  explain ;  but 
they  are  mistaken.  The  reason  is  not  so 
material  as  it  seems. 

But  spring  was  near  in  spite  of  falling 
snow  and  the  dirty  ice  in  the  river.  There 
was  not  even  a  flushing  of  the  willow  twigs 


Two  Pioneers  161 

to  tell  it  by,  nor  a  clearing  of  the  leaden 
sky,  —  only  the  almanac.  Yet  all  men 
were  looking  forward  to  it.  The  trappers 
put  in  the  feeble  days  of  convalescence, 
making  long  rafts  on  which  to  pile  the 
skins  dried  over  winter,  —  a  fine  variety, 
worth  all  but  their  weight  in  gold.  Money 
was  easily  got  in  those  days;  but  there 
are  circumstances  under  which  money  is 
valueless. 

Father  de  Smet  thought  of  this  the  day 
before  Easter,  as  he  plunged  through  the 
mud  of  the  winding  street  in  his  bearskin 
gaiters.  Stout  were  his  legs,  firm  his  lungs, 
as  he  turned  to  breathe  in  the  west  wind; 
clear  his  sharp  and  humorous  eyes.  He 
was  going  to  the  little  chapel  where  the 
mission  school  had  previously  been  held. 
Here  was  a  rude  pulpit,  and  back  of  it  a 
much-disfigured  virgin,  dressed  in  turkey- 
red  calico.  Two  cheap  candles  in  their  tin 
sticks  guarded  this  figure,  and  beneath,  on 
the  floor,  was  spread  an  otter-skin  of  perfect 
beauty.  The  seats  were  of  pine,  without 
backs,  and  the  wind  whistled  through  the 
chinks  between  the  logs.  Moreover,  the 
ii 


162  A  Mountain  Woman 

place  was  dirty.  Lenten  service  had  been 
out  of  the  question.  The  living  had  neither 
time  nor  strength  to  come  to  worship ;  and 
the  dead  were  not  given  the  honor  of  a 
burial  from  church  in  these  times  of  terror. 
The  priest  looked  about  him  in  dismay,  the 
place  was  so  utterly  forsaken;  yet  to  let 
Easter  go  by  without  recognition  was  not 
to  his  liking.  He  had  been  the  night  before 
to  every  house  in  the  settlement,  bidding 
the  people  to  come  to  devotions  on  Sunday 
morning.  He  knew  that  not  one  of  them 
would  refuse  his  invitation.  There  was  no 
hero  larger  in  the  eyes  of  these  unfortunates 
than  the  simple  priest  who  walked  among 
them  with  his  unpretentious  piety.  The 
promises  were  given  with  whispered  bless- 
ings, and  there  were  voices  that  broke  in 
making  them,  and  hands  that  shook  with 
honest  gratitude.  The  priest,  remembering 
these  things,  and  all  the  awful  suffering  of 
the  winter,  determined  to  make  the  ser- 
vice symbolic,  indeed,  of  the  resurrection 
and  the  life,  —  the  annual  resurrection  and 
life  that  comes  each  year,  a  palpable  miracle, 
to  teach  the  dullest  that  God  reigns. 


Two  Pioneers.  163 

"How  are  you  going  to  trim  the  altar?" 
cried  a  voice  behind  him. 

He  turned,  startled,  and  in  the  doorway 
stood  Mademoiselle  Ninon,  her  short  skirt 
belted  with  a  red  silk  scarf,  —  the  token  of 
some  trapper,  —  her  ankles  protected  with 
fringed  leggins,  her  head  covered  with  a  be- 
ribboned  hat  of  felt,  such  as  the  voyageurs 
wore. 

"  Our  devotions  will  be  the  only  decora- 
tions we  can  hang  on  it.  But  gratitude  is 
better  than  blossoms,  and  humanity  more 
beautiful  than  green  wreaths,"  said  the 
father,  gently. 

It  was  a  curious  thing,  and  one  that  he 
had  often  noticed  himself;  he  gave  this 
woman  —  unworthy  as  she  was  —  the  best 
of  his  simple  thoughts. 

Ninon  tiptoed  toward  the  priest  with  one 
finger  coquettishly  raised  to  insure  secrecy. 

"  You  will  never  believe  it,"  she  whis- 
pered, "  no  one  would  believe  it !  But  the 
fact  is,  father,  I  have  two  lilies." 

"Lilies,"  cried  the  priest,  incredulously, 
"two  lilies?" 

"That's  what  I  say, father  —  two  marvel- 


164          A  Mountain  Woman 

lously  fair  lilies  with  little  sceptres  of  gold  in 
them,  and  leaves  as  white  as  snow.  The  bulbs 

were  brought  me  last  autumn  by ;  that 

is  to  say,  they  were  brought  from  St.  Louis. 
Only  now  have  they  blossomed.  Heavens, 
how  I  have  watched  the  buds !  I  have  said 
to  myself  every  morning  for  a  fortnight : 
'  Will  they  open  in  time  for  the  good 
father's  Easter  morning  service?'  Then  I 
said :  '  They  will  open  too  soon.  Buds/  I 
have  cried  to  them,  '  do  not  dare  to  open  yet, 
or  you  will  be  horribly  passee  by  Easter, 
Have  the  kindness,  will  you,  to  save  your- 
selves for  a  great  event.'  And  they  did  it; 
yes,  father,  you  may  not  believe,  but  no 
later  than  this  morning  these  sensible 
flowers  opened  up  their  leaves  boldly,  quite 
conscious  that  they  were  doing  the  right 
thing,  and  to-morrow,  if  you  please,  they 
will  be  here.  And  they  will  perfume  the 
whole  place;  yes." 

She  stopped  suddenly,  and  relaxed  her 
vivacious  expression  for  one  of  pain. 

"  You  are  certainly  ill,"  cried  the  priest. 
"Rest  yourself."  He  tried  to  push  her  on 
to  one  of  the  seats ;  but  a  sort  of  convulsive 


Two  Pioneers  165 

rigidity  came  over  her,  very  alarming  to 
look  at. 

"  You  are  worn  out,"  her  companion  said 
gravely.  "  And  you  are  chilled." 

"  Yes,  I  'm  cold,"  confessed  Ninon.  "  But 
I  had  to  come  to  tell  you  about  the  lilies. 
But,  do  you  see,  I  never  could  bring  myself 
to  put  them  in  this  room  as  it  is  now.  It 
would  be  too  absurd  to  place  them  among 
this  dirt.  We  must  clean  the  place." 

"  The  place  will  be  cleaned.  I  will  see  to 
it.  But  as  for  you,  go  home  and  care  for 
yourself."  Ninon  started  toward  the  door 
with  an  uncertain  step.  Suddenly  she  came 
back. 

"It  is  too  funny,"  she  said,  "that  red 
calico  there  on  the  Virgin.  Father,  I  have 
some  laces  which  were  my  mother's,  who 
was  a  good  woman,  and  which  have  never 
been  worn  by  me.  They  are  all  I  have  to 
remember  France  by  and  the  days  when  I 
was  —  different.  If  I  might  be  permitted  —  " 
she  hesitated  and  looked  timidly  at  the  priest. 

"  '  She  hath  done  what  she  could/  "  mur- 
mured Father  de  Smet,  softly.  "  Bring  your 
laces,  Ninon."  He  would  have  added: 


1 66  A  Mountain  Woman 

"Thy  sins  be  forgiven  thee."  But  un- 
fortunately, at  this  moment,  Pierre  came 
lounging  down  the  street,  through  the  mud, 
fresh  from  Fort  Laramie.  His  rifle  was 
slung  across  his  back,  and  a  full  game-bag 
revealed  the  fact  that  he  had  amused  him- 
self on  his  way.  His  curly  and  wind-bleached 
hair  blew  out  in  time-torn  banners  from  the 
edge  of  his  wide  hat.  His  piercing,  black 
eyes  were  those  of  a  man  who  drinks  deep, 
fights  hard,  and  lives  always  in  the  open  air. 
Wild  animals  have  such  eyes,  only  there  is 
this  difference:  the  viciousness  of  an 
animal  is  natural;  at  least  one-half  of  the 
viciousness  of  man  is  artificial  and  devised. 
,  When  Ninon  saw  the  frost-reddened  face 
of  this  gallant  of  the  plains,  she  gave  a  little 
cry  of  delight,  and  the  color  rushed  back 
into  her  face.  The  trapper  saw  her,  and 
gave  a  rude  shout  of  welcome.  The  next 
moment,  he  had  swung  her  clear  of  the 
chapel  steps ;  and  then  the  two  went  down 
the  street  together,  Pierre  pausing  only  long 
enough  to  doff  his  hat  to  the  priest. 

"  The  Virgin  will  wear   no   fresh  laces," 
said  the  priest,  with  some  bitterness ;  but  he 


Two  Pioneers  167 

was  mistaken.  An  hour  later,  Ninon  was 
back,  not  only  with  a  box  of  laces,  but  also 
with  a  collection  of  cosmetics,  with  which 
she  proceeded  to  make  startling  the  scratched 
and  faded  face  of  the  wooden  Virgin,  who 
wore,  after  the  completion  of  Ninon's  labors, 
a  decidedly  piquant  and  saucy  expression. 
The  very  manner  in  which  the  laces  were 
draped  had  a  suggestion  of  Ninon's  still 
unforgotten  art  as  a  maker  of  millinery,  and 
was  really  a  very  good  presentment  of  Paris 
fashions  four  years  past.  Pierre,  meantime, 
amused  himself  by  filling  up  the  chinks  in 
the  logs  with  fresh  mud,  —  a  commodity  of 
which  there  was  no  lack,  —  and  others  of 
the  neighbors,  incited  by  these  extraordinary 
efforts,  washed  the  dirt  from  seats,  floor,  and 
windows,  and  brought  furs  with  which  to  make 
presentable  the  floor  about  the  pulpit. 

Father  de  Smet  worked  harder  than  any 
of  them.  In  his  happy  enthusiasm  he  chose 
to  think  this  energy  on  the  part  of  the  others 
was  prompted  by  piety,  though  well  he 
knew  it  was  only  a  refuge  from  the  insuffer- 
able ennui  that  pervaded  the  place.  Ninon 
suddenly  came  up  to  him  with  a  white  face. 


1 68  A  Mountain  Woman 

"I  am  not  well,"  she  said.  Her  teeth 
were  chattering,  and  her  eyes  had  a  little 
blue  glaze  over  them.  "  I  am  going  home. 
In  the  morning  I  will  send  the  lilies." 

The  priest  caught  her  by  the  hand. 

"  Ninon,"  he  whispered,  "  it  is  on  my  soul 
not  to  let  you  go  to-night.  Something  tells 
me  that  the  hour  of  your  salvation  is  come. 
Women  worse  than  you,  Ninon,  have  come 
to  lead  holy  lives.  Pray,  Ninon,  pray  to 
the  Mother  of  Sorrows,  who  knows  the  suf- 
ferings and  sins  of  the  heart."  He  pointed 
to  the  befrilled  and  highly  fashionable  Virgin 
with  her  rouge-stained  cheeks. 

Ninon  shrank  from  him,  and  the  same 
convulsive  rigidity  he  had  noticed  before, 
held  her  immovable.  A  moment  later,  she 
was  on  the  street  again,  and  the  priest, 
watching  her  down  the  street,  saw  her  enter 
her  cabin  with  Pierre. 

It  was  past  midnight  when  the  priest  was 
awakened  from  his  sleep  by  a  knock  on  the 
door.  He  wrapped  his  great  buffalo-coat 
about  him,  and  answered  the  summons. 
Without  in  the  damp  darkness  stood  Pierre. 


Two  Pioneers  169 

"  Father,"  he  cried,  "  Ninon  has  sent  for 
you.  Since  she  left  you,  she  has  been  very 
ill.  I  have  done  what  I  could  ;  but  now  she 
hardly  speaks,  but  I  make  out  that  she 
wants  you."  Ten  minutes  later,  they  were 
in  Ninon's  cabin.  When  Father  de  Smet 
looked  at  her  he  knew  she  was  dying.  He 
had  seen  the  Indians  like  that  many  times 
during  the  winter.  It  was  the  plague,  but 
driven  in  to  prey  upon  the  system  by  the 
exposure.  The  Parisienne's  teeth  were  set, 
but  she  managed  to  smile  upon  her  visitor 
as  he  threw  off  his  coat  and  bent  over  her. 
He  poured  some  whiskey  for  her ;  but  she 
could  not  get  the  liquid  over  her  throat. 

"  Do  not,"  she  said  fiercely  between  those 
set  white  teeth, "  do  not  forget  the  lilies."  She 
sank  back  and  fixed  her  glazing  eyes  on  the 
antlers,  and  kept  them  there  watching  those 
dangling  silken  scarfs,  while  the  priest,  in 
haste,  spoke  the  words  for  the  departing  soul. 

The  next  morning  she  lay  dead  among 
those  half  barbaric  relics  of  her  coquetry, 
and  two  white  lilies  with  hearts  of  gold 
shed  perfume  from  an  altar  in  a  wilderness. 


Up  the  Gulch 


Up  the  Gulch 


West?"  sighed  Kate.  "Why, 
yes!  I'd  like  to  go  West." 

She  looked  at  the  babies,  who  were  play- 
ing on  the  floor  with  their  father,  and 
sighed  again. 

"  You  've  got  to  go  somewhere,  you  know, 
Kate.  It  might  as  well  be  west  as  in  any 
other  direction.  And  this  is  such  a  chance  ! 
We  can't  have  mamma  lying  around  on 
sofas  without  any  roses  in  her  cheeks,  can 
we?"  He  put  this  last  to  the  children, 
who,  being  yet  at  the  age  when  they  talked 
in  "Early  English,"  as  their  father  called 
it,  made  a  clamorous  but  inarticulate  reply. 

Major  Shelly,  the  grandfather  of  these 
very  young  persons,  stroked  his  mustache 
and  looked  indulgent. 

"  Show  almost  human  intelligence,  don't 
they?"  said  their  father,  as  he  lay  flat  on 


174  A  Mountain  Woman 

his  back  and  permitted  the  babies  to  climb 
over  him. 

"  Ya-as, "  drawled  the  major.  "  They  do. 
Don't  see  how  you  account  for  it,  Jack." 

Jack  roared,  and  the  lips  of  the  babies 
trembled  with  fear. 

Their  mother  said  nothing.  She  was  on 
the  sofa,  her  hands  lying  inert,  her  eyes 
fixed  on  her  rosy  babies  with  an  expression 
which  her  father-in-law  and  her  husband 
tried  hard  not  to  notice. 

It  was  not  easy  to  tell  why  Kate  was 
ailing.  Of  course,  the  babies  were  young, 
but  there  were  other  reasons. 

"I  believe  you  're  too  happy,"  Jack  some- 
times said  to  her.  "  Try  not  to  be  quite  so 
happy,  Kate.  At  least,  try  not  to  take 
your  happiness  so  seriously.  Please  don't 
adore  me  so;  I  'm  only  a  commonplace 
fellow.  And  the  babies  —  they  're  not 
going  to  blow  away." 

But  Kate  continued  to  look  with  intense 
eyes  at  her  little  world,  and  to  draw  into 
it  with  loving  and  generous  hands  all  who 
were  willing  to  come. 

"Kate  is  just  like  a  kite,"  Jack  explained 


Up  the  Gulch  175 

to  his  father,  the  major;  "she  can't  keep 
afloat  without  just  so  many  bobs." 

Kate's  "bobs"  were  the  unfortunates  she 
collected  around  her.  These  absorbed  her 
strength.  She  felt  their  misery  with  sym- 
pathies that  were  abnormal.  The  very 
laborer  in  the  streets  felt  his  toil  less 
keenly  than  she,  as  she  watched  the  drops 
gather  on  his  brow. 

"Is  life  worth  keeping  at  the  cost  of  a 
lot  like  that  ?  "  she  would  ask.  She  felt 
ashamed  of  her  own  ease.  She  apologized 
for  her  own  serene  and  perfect  happiness. 
She  even  felt  sorry  for  those  mothers  who 
had  not  children  as  radiantly  beautiful  as 
her  own. 

"Kate  must  have  a  change,"  the  major 
had  given  out.  He  was  going  West  on 
business  and  insisted  on  taking  her  with 
him.  Jack  looked  doubtful.  He  was  n't 
sure  how  he  would  get  along  without  Kate 
to  look  after  everything.  Secretly,  he  had 
an  idea  that  servants  were  a  kind  of  wild 
animal  that  had  to  be  fed  by  an  experienced 
keeper.  But  when  the  time  came,  he  kissed 
her  good-by  in  as  jocular  a  manner  as  he 


176  A  Mountain  Woman 

could  summon,  and  refused  to  see  the  tears 
that  gathered  in  her  eyes. 

Until  Chicago  was  reached,  there  was 
nothing  very  different  from  that  which 
Kate  had  been  in  the  habit  of  seeing. 
After  that,  she  set  herself  to  watch  for 
Western  characteristics.  She  felt  that  she 
would  know  them  as  soon  as  she  saw  them. 

"  I  expected  to  be  stirred  up  and  shocked," 
she  explained  to  the  major.  But  somehow, 
the  Western  type  did  not  appear.  Common- 
place women  with  worn  faces  —  browned 
and  seamed,  though  not  aged  —  were  at 
the  stations,  waiting  for  something  or  some 
one.  Men  with  a  hurried,  nervous  air 
were  everywhere.  Kate  looked  in  vain  for 
the  gayety  and  heartiness  which  she  had 
always  associated  with  the  West. 

After  they  got  beyond  the  timber  country 
and  rode  hour  after  hour  on  a  tract  smooth 
as  a  becalmed  ocean,  she  gave  herself  up  to 
the  feeling  of  immeasurable  vastness  which 
took  possession  of  her.  The  sun  rolled  out 
of  the  sky  into  oblivion  with  a  frantic,  head- 
long haste.  Nothing  softened  the  aspect 
of  its  wrath.  Near,  red,  familiar,  it  seemed 


Up  the  Gulch  177 

to  visibly  bowl  along  the  heavens.  In  the 
morning  it  rose  as  baldly  as  it  had  set. 
And  back  and  forth  over  the  awful  plain 
blew  the  winds,  —  blew  from  east  to  west 
and  back  again,  strong  as  if  fresh  from  the 
chambers  of  their  birth,  full  of  elemental 
scents  and  of  mighty  murmur  ings. 

"This  is  the  West!"  Kate  cried,  again 
and  again. 

The  major  listened  to  her  unsmilingly. 
It  always  seemed  to  him  a  waste  of  muscu- 
lar energy  to  smile.  He  did  not  talk  much. 
Conversation  had  never  appealed  to  him  in 
the  light  of  an  art.  He  spoke  when  there 
was  a  direction  or  a  command  to  be  given, 
or  an  inquiry  to  be  made.  The  major,  if 
the  truth  must  be  known,  was  material. 
Things  that  he  could  taste,  touch,  see, 
appealed  to  him.  He  had  been  a  volunteer 
in  the  civil  war,  —  a  volunteer  with  a  good 
record,  — which  he  never  mentioned;  and, 
having  acquitted  himself  decently,  let  the 
matter  go  without  asking  reprisal  or  pay- 
ment for  what  he  had  freely  given.  He 
went  into  business  and  sold  cereal  foods. 

"I  believe  in  useful  things,"  the  major 
12 


178  A  Mountain  Woman 

expressed  himself.  "  Oatmeal,  wheat,  — 
men  have  to  have  them.  God  intended 
they  should.  There  's  Jack  —  my  son  — 
Jack  Shelly  —  lawyer.  What's  the  use  of 
litigation?  God  didn't  design  litigation. 
It  does  n't  do  anybody  any  good.  It  isn't 
justice  you  get.  It 's  something  entirely 
different,  —  a  verdict  according  to  law. 
They  say  Jack  's  clever.  But  I  'm  mighty 
glad  I  sell  wheat." 

He  didn't  sell  it  as  a  speculator,  how- 
ever. That  wasn't  his  way. 

"I  earn  what  I  make,"  he  often  said;  and 
he  had  grown  rich  in  the  selling  of  his 
wholesome  foods. 

Helena  lies  among  round,  brown  hills. 
Above  it  is  a  sky  of  deep  and  illimitable 
blue.  In  the  streets  are  crumbs  of  gold, 
but  it  no  longer  pays  to  mine  for  these; 
because,  as  real  estate,  the  property  is  more 
valuable.  It  is  a  place  of  fictitious  values. 
There  is  excitement  in  the  air.  Men  have 
the  faces  of  speculators.  Every  laborer  is 
patient  at  his  task  because  he  cherishes  a 
hope  that  some  day  he  will  be  a  million- 


Up  the  Gulch  179 

naire.  There  is  hospitality,  and  cordiality 
and  good  fellowship,  and  an  undeniable 
democracy.  There  is  wealth  and  luxurious 
living.  There  is  even  culture,  —  but  it  is 
obtruded  as  a  sort  of  novelty;  it  is  not 
accepted  as  a  matter  of  course. 

Kate  and  the  major  were  driven  over  two 
or  three  miles  of  dusty,  hard  road  to  a  dis- 
tant hotel,  which  stands  in  the  midst  of 
greenness,  —  in  an  oasis.  Immediately 
above  the  green  sward  that  surrounds  it  the 
brown  hills  rise,  the  grass  scorched  by  the 
sun. 

Kate  yielded  herself  to  the  almost  absurd 
luxury  of  the  place  with  ease  and  compla- 
cency. She  took  kindly  to  the  great  veran- 
das. She  adapted  herself  to  the  elaborate 
and  ill-assorted  meals.  She  bathed  in  the 
marvellous  pool,  warm  with  the  heat  of 
eternal  fires  in  mid-earth.  This  pool  was 
covered  with  a  picturesque  Moorish  struct- 
ure, and  at  one  end  a  cascade  tumbled,  over 
which  the  sun,  coming  through  colored  win- 
dows, made  a  mimic  prism  in  the  white 
spray.  The  life  was  not  unendurable.  The 
major  was  seldom  with  her,  being  obliged 


180  A  Mountain  Woman 

to  go  about  his  business ;  and  Kate  amused 
herself  by  driving  over  the  hills,  by  watch- 
ing the  inhabitants,  by  wondering  about  the 
lives  in  the  great,  pretentious,  unhomelike 
houses  with  their  treeless  yards  and  their 
closed  shutters.  The  sunlight,  white  as 
the  glare  on  Arabian  sands,  penetrated 
everywhere.  It  seemed  to  fairly  scorch  the 
eye-balls. 

"  Oh,  we  're  West,  now,"  Kate  said,  exult- 
antly. "  I  've  seen  a  thousand  types.  But 
yet  —  not  quite  the  type  —  not  the  imper- 
sonation of  simplicity  and  daring  that  I  was 
looking  for. "  * 

The  major  didn't  know  quite  what  she 
was  talking  about.  But  he  acquiesced. 
All  he  cared  about  was  to  see  her  grow 
stronger ;  and  that  she  was  doing  every  day. 
She  was  growing  amazingly  lovely,  too,  — 
at  least  the  major  thought  so.  Every  one 
looked  at  her;  but  that  was,  perhaps,  be- 
cause she  was  such  a  sylph  of  a  woman. 
Beside  the  stalwart  major,  she  looked  like  a 
fairy  princess. 

One  day  she  suddenly  realized  the  fact 
that  she  had  had  a  companion  on  the 


Up  the  Gulch  181 

veranda  for  several  mornings.  Of  course, 
there  were  a  great  many  persons  —  invalids, 
largely  —  sitting  about,  but  one  of  them 
had  been  obtruding  himself  persistently 
into  her  consciousness.  It  was  not  that  he 
was  rude ;  it  was  only  that  he  was  thinking 
about  her.  A  person  with  a  temperament 
like  Kate's  could  not  long  be  oblivious  to  a 
thing  like  that ;  and  she  furtively  observed 
the  offender  with  that  genius  for  psycho- 
logical perception  which  was  at  once  her 
greatest  danger  and  her  charm. 

The  man  was  dressed  with  a  childish 
attempt  at  display.4  His  shirt-front  was 
decorated  with  a  diamond,  and  his  cuff- 
buttons  were  of  onyx  with  diamond  settings. 
His  clothes  were  expensive  and  perceptibly 
new,  and  he  often  changed  his  costumes, 
but  with  a  noticeable  disregard  for  pro- 
priety. He  was  very  conscious  of  his  silk 
hat,  and  frequently  wiped  it  with  a  handker- 
chief on  which  his  monogram  was  worked 
in  blue. 

When  the  'busses  brought  up  their  loads, 
he  was  always  on  hand  to  watch  the  new- 
comers. He  took  a  long  time  at  his  din- 


1 82  A  Mountain  Woman 

ners,  and  appeared  to  order  a  great  deal  and 
eat  very  little.  There  were  card-rooms  and 
a  billiard-hall,  not  to  mention  a  bowling- 
alley  and  a  tennis-court,  where  the  other 
guests  of  the  hotel  spent  much  time.  But 
this  man  never  visited  them.  He  sat  often 
with  one  of  the  late  reviews  in  his  hand, 
looking  as  if  he  intended  giving  his  atten- 
tion to  it  at  any  moment.  But  after  he  had 
scrupulously  cut  the  leaves  with  a  little 
carved  ivory  paper-cutter,  he  sat  staring 
straight  before  him  with  the  book  open,  but 
unread,  in  his  hand. 

Kate  took  more  interest  in  this  melan- 
choly, middle-aged  man  than  she  would 
have  done  if  she  had  not  been  on  the  out- 
look for  her  Western  type,  —  the  man  who 
was  to  combine  all  the  qualities  of  chivalry, 
daring,  bombast,  and  generosity,  seasoned 
with  piquant  grammar,  which  she  firmly 
believed  to  be  the  real  thing.  But  notwith- 
standing this  kindly  and  somewhat  curious 
interest,  she  might  never  have  made  his 
acquaintance  if  it  had  not  been  for  a  rather 
unpleasant  adventure. 

The  major  was  "  closing  up  a  deal "  and 


Up  the  Gulch  183 

had  hurried  away  after  breakfast,  and  Kate, 
in  the  luxury  of  convalescence,  half -reclined 
in  a  great  chair  on  the  veranda  and  watched 
the  dusky  blue  mist  twining  itself  around 
the  brown  hills.  She  was  not  thinking 
of  the  babies;  she  was  not  worrying  about 
home ;  she  was  not  longing  for  anything,  or 
even  indulging  in  a  dream.  That  vacuous 
content  which  engrosses  the  body  after  long 
indisposition,  held  her  imperatively.  Sud- 
denly she  was  aroused  from  this  happy  con- 
dition of  nothingness  by  the  spectacle  of 
an  enormous  bull-dog  approaching  her  with 
threatening  teeth.  <  She  had  noticed  the 
monster  often  in  his  kennel  near  the  sta- 
bles, and  it  was  well  understood  that  he  was 
never  to  be  permitted  his  freedom.  Now  he 
walked  toward  her  with  a  solid  step  and  an 
alarming  deliberateness.  Kate  sat  still  and 
tried  to  assure  herself  that  he  meant  no  mis- 
chief, but  by  the  time  the  great  body  had 
made  itself  felt  on  the  skirt  of  her  gown  she 
could  restrain  her  fear  no  longer,  and  gave 
a  nervous  cry  of  alarm.  The  brute  answered 
with  a  growl.  If  he  had  lacked  provocation 
before,  he  considered  that  he  had  it  now. 


184  A  Mountain  Woman 

He  showed  his  teeth  and  flung  his  detestable 
body  upon  her;  and  Kate  felt  herself  grow- 
ing dizzy  with  fear.  But  just  then  an  arm 
was  interposed  and  the  dog  was  flung  back. 
There  was  a  momentary  struggle.  Some 
gentlemen  came  hurrying  out  of  the  office ; 
and  as  they  beat  the  dog  back  to  its  retreat, 
Kate  summoned  words  from  her  parched 
throat  to  thank  her  benefactor. 

It  was  the  melancholy  man  with  the  new 
clothes.  This  morning  he  was  dressed  in 
a  suit  of  the  lightest  gray,  with  a  white 
marseilles  waistcoat,  over  which  his  glitter- 
ing chain  shone  ostentatiously.  White 
tennis-shoes,  a  white  rose  in  his  button- 
hole, and  a  white  straw  hat  in  his  hand  com- 
pleted a  toilet  over  which  much  time  had 
evidently  been  spent.  Kate  noted  these 
details  as  she  held  out  her  hand. 

"  I  may  have  been  alarmed  without  cause, " 
she  said;  "but  I  was  horribly  frightened. 
Thank  you  so  much  for  coming  to  my  res- 
cue. And  I  think,  if  you  would  add  to  your 
kindness  by  getting  me  a  glass  of  water —  " 

When  he  came  back,  his  hand  was  trem- 
bling a  little;  and  as  Kate  looked  up  to 


Up  the  Gulch  185 

learn  the  cause,  she  saw  that  his  face  was 
flushed.  He  was  embarrassed.  She  decided 
that  he  was  not  accustomed  to  the  society 
of  ladies.  "Brutes  like  that  dog  ain't  no 
place  in  th'  world  —  that's  my  opinion. 
There  are  some  bad  things  we  can't  help 
havin'  aroun' ;  but  a  bull-dog  ain't  one 
of  'em." 

"I  quite  agree  with  you,"  Kate  acqui- 
esced, as  she  drank  the  water.  "But  as 
this  is  the  first  unpleasant  experience  of 
any  kind  that  I  have  had  since  I  came 
here,  I  don't  feel  that  I  have  any  right  to 
complain. " 

"  You  're  here  fur  yur  health  ? " 

"Yes.  And  I  am  getting  it.  You're 
not  an  invalid,  I  imagine?" 

"  No  —  no-op.  I  'm  here  be  —  well,  I ' ve 
thought  fur  a  long  time  I  'd  like  t'  stay  at 
this  here  hotel." 

"Indeed!" 

"Yes.  I've  been  up  th'  gulch  these  fif- 
teen years.  Bin  livin'  on  a  shelf  of  black  rock. 
Th'  sun  got  'round  'bout  ten.  Couldn't 
make  a  thing  grow."  The  man  was  look- 
ing off  toward  the  hills,  with  an  expression 


1 86          A  Mountain  Woman 

of  deep  sadness  in  his  eyes.  "Didn't 
never  live  in  a  place  where  nothin'  'd 
grow,  did  you?  I  took  geraniums  up  thar 
time  an'  time  agin.  Red  ones.  Made  me 
think  of  mother ;  she 's  in  Germany.  Watered 
'em  mornin'  an'  night.  Th'  damned  things 
died." 

The  oath  slipped  out  with  an  artless  un- 
consciousness, and  there  was  a  little  moist- 
ure in  his  eyes.  Kate  felt  she  ought  to 
bring  the  conversation  to  a  close.  She 
wondered  what  Jack  would  say  if  he  saw 
her  talking  with  a  perfect  stranger  who  used 
oaths !  She  would  have  gone  into  the  house 
but  for  something  that  caught  her  eye.  It 
was  the  hand  of  the  man;  that  hand  was 
a  bludgeon.  All  grace  and  flexibility  had 
gone  out  of  it,  and  it  had  become  a  mere 
instrument  of  toil.  It  was  seamed  and 
misshapen;  yet  it  had  been  carefully  mani- 
cured, and  the  pointed  nails  looked  fantastic 
and  animal-like.  A  great  seal-ring  bore  an 
elaborate  monogram,  while  the  little  finger 
displayed  a  collection  of  diamonds  and 
emeralds  truly  dazzling  to  behold.  An 
impulse  of  humanity  and  a  sort  of  artistic 


Up  the  Gulch  187 

curiosity,  much  stronger  than  her  discretion, 
urged  Kate  to  continue  her  conversation. 

"  What  were  you  doing  up  the  gulch  ?  " 
she  said. 

The  man  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and 
regarded  her  a  moment  before  answering. 
He  realized  the  significance  of  her  question. 
He  took  it  as  a  sign  that  she  was  willing 
to  be  friendly.  A  look  of  gratitude,  almost 
tender,  sprang  into  his  eyes,  —  dull  gray 
eyes,  they  were,  with  a  kindliness  for  their 
only  recommendation. 

"Makin'  my  pile,"  he  replied.  "I've 
been  in  these  parts  twenty  years.  When  I 
come  here,  I  thought  I  was  goin'  to  make  a 
fortune  right  off.  I  had  all  th'  money  that 
mother  could  give  me,  and  I  lost  everything  I 
had  in  three  months.  I  went  up  th'  gulch." 
He  paused,  and  wiped  his  forehead  with  his 
handkerchief. 

There  was  something  in  his  remark  and  the 
intonation  which  made  Kate  say  softly : 

"  I  suppose  you  've  had  a  hard  time  of  it." 

"Thar  you  were!  "  he  cried.  "Thar  was 
th'  rock  —  risin',  risin',  black !  At  th' 
bottom  wus  th'  creek,  howlin'  day  an' 


1 88  A  Mountain  Woman 

night!  Lonesome!  Gee!  No  one  t'  talk 
to.  Of  course,  th'  men.  Had  some  with 
me  always.  They  didn't  talk.  It 's  too  — 
too  quiet  t'  talk  much.  They  played  cards. 
Curious,  but  I  never  played  cards.  Don't 
think  I  'd  find  it  amusin'.  No,  I  worked. 
Came  down  here  once  in  six  months  or 
three  months.  Had  t'  come  —  grub-staked 
th'  men,  you  know.  Did  you  ever  eat  salt 
pork?"  He  turned  to  Kate  suddenly  with 
this  question. 

"Why,  yes;  a  few  times.  Did  you  have 
it?" 

"  Nothin'  else,  much.  I  used  t'  think  of 
th'  things  mother  cooked.  Mother  under- 
stood cookin',  if  ever  a  woman  did.  I  '11 
never  forget  th'  dinner  she  gave  me  th'  day 
I  came  away.  A  woman  ought  t'  cook.  I 
hear  American  women  don't  go  in  much 
for  cookin'." 

"Oh,  I  think  that's  a  mistake,"  Kate 
hastened  to  interrupt.  "  All  that  I  know  un- 
derstand how  to  serve  excellent  dinners.  Of 
course,  they  may  not  cook  them  themselves, 
but  I  think  they  could  if  it  were  necessary. " 

"  Hum !  "    He  picked  up  a  long  glove  that 


Up  the  Gulch  189 

had  fallen  from  Kate's  lap  and  fingered  it 
before  returning  it. 

"  I  s'pose  you  cook  ?  " 

"I  make  a  specialty  of  salads  and  sor- 
bets," smiled  Kate.  "I  guess  I  could  roast 
meat  and  make  bread;  but  circumstances 
have  not  yet  compelled  me  to  do  it.  But 
I  've  a  theory  that  an  American  woman  can 
do  anything  she  puts  her  mind  to." 

The  man  laughed  out  loud,  —  a  laugh 
quite  out  of  proportion  to  the  mild  good 
humor  of  the  remark;  but  it  was  evident 
that  he  could  no  longer  conceal  his  delight 
at  this  companionship. 

"  How  about  raisin'  flowers  ?  "  he  asked. 
"Are  you  strong  on  that?" 

"I  've  only  to  look  at  a  plant  to  make 
it  grow,"  Kate  cried,  with  enthusiasm. 
"When  my  friends  are  in  despair  over  a 
plant,  they  bring  it  to  me,  and  I  just  pet  it 
a  little,  and  it  brightens  up.  I  've  the  most 
wonderful  fernery  you  ever  saw.  It 's  green, 
summer  and  winter.  Hundreds  of  people 
stop  and  look  up  at  it,  it  is  so  green  and 
enticing,  there  above  the  city  streets." 

"What  city?" 


190 


A  Mountain  Woman 


"Philadelphia." 

"  Mother  's  jest  that  way.  She  has  a  gar- 
den of  roses.  And  the  mignonette  —  " 

But  he  broke  off  suddenly,  and  sat  once 
more  staring  before  him. 

"  But  not  a  damned  thing,"  he  added,  with 
poetic  pensiveness,  "would  grow  in  that 
gulch." 

"Why  did  you  stay  there  so  long?  "  asked 
Kate,  after  a  little  pause  in  which  she  man- 
aged to  regain  her  waning  courage. 

"  Bad  luck.  You  never  see  a  place  with 
so  many  false  leads.  To-day  you  'd  get  a 
streak  that  looked  big.  To-morrow  you  'd 
find  it  a  pocket.  One  night  I  'd  go  t'  bed 
with  my  heart  goin'  like  a  race-horse. 
Next  night  it  would  be  ploddin'  along  like 
a  winded  burro.  Don't  know  what  made 
me  stick  t'  it.  It  was  hot  there,  too !  And 
cold !  Always  roastin'  ur  freezin'.  It  'd 
been  different  if  I  'd  had  any  one  t'  help  me 
stand  it.  But  th'  men  were  always  findin' 
fault.  They  blamed  me  fur  everythin'.  I 
used  t'  lie  awake  at  night  an'  hear  'em 
talkin'  me  over.  It  made  me  lonesome,  I 
tell  you!  Thar  wasn't  no  one!  Mother 


Up  the  Gulch  191 

used  t'  write.  But  I  never  told  her  th' 
truth.  She  ain't  a  suspicion  of  what  I  've 
been  a-goin'  through." 

Kate  sat  and  looked  at  him  in  silence. 
His  face  was  seamed,  though  far  from  old. 
His  body  was  awkward,  but  impressed  her 
with  a  sense  of  magnificent  strength. 

"I  couldn't  ask  no  woman  t'  share  my 
hard  times,"  he  resumed  after  a  time.  "I 
always  said  when  I  got  a  woman,  it  was 
go  in'  t'  be  t'  make  her  happy.  It  wer'  n't 
t'  be  t'  ask  her  t'  drudge." 

There  was  another  silence.  This  man 
out  of  the  solitude  seemed  to  be  elated  past 
expression  at  his  new  companionship.  He 
looked  with  appreciation  at  the  little  pointed 
toes  of  Kate's  slippers,  as  they  glanced  from 
below  the  skirt  of  her  dainty  organdie.  He 
noted  the  band  of  pearls  on  her  finger.  His 
eyes  rested  long  on  the  daisies  at  her  waist. 
The  wind  tossed  up  little  curls  of  her  warm 
brown  hair.  Her  eyes  suffused  with  inter- 
est, her  tender  mouth  seemed  ready  to  lend 
itself  to  any  emotion,  and  withal  she  was 
so  small,  so  compact,  so  exquisite.  The 
man  wiped  his  forehead  again,  in  mere 
exuberance. 


192  A  Mountain  Woman 

"  Here  's  my  card,"  he  said,  very  solemnly, 
as  he  drew  an  engraved  bit  of  pasteboard 
from  its  leather  case.  Kate  bowed  and 
took  it. 

"Mr.  Peter  Roeder,"  she  read. 

"I  've  no  card,"  she  said.  "My  name  is 
Shelly.  I  'm  here  for  my  health,  as  I  told 
you. "  She  rose  at  this  point,  and  held  out 
her  hand.  "I  must  thank  you  once  more 
for  your  kindness,"  she  said. 

His  eyes  fastened  on  hers  with  an  appeal 
for  a  less  formal  word.  There  was  something 
almost  terrible  in  their  silent  eloquence. 

"  I  hope  we  may  meet  again,"  she  said. 

Mr.  Peter  Roeder  made  a  very  low  and 
awkward  bow,  and  opened  the  door  into  the 
corridor  for  her. 

That  evening  the  major  announced  that  he 
was  obliged  to  go  to  Seattle.  The  journey 
was  not  an  inviting  one;  Kate  was  well 
placed  where  she  was,  and  he  decided  to 
leave  her. 

She  was  well  enough  now  to  take  longer 
drives;  and  she  found  strange,  lonely  can- 
yons, wild  and  beautiful,  where  yellow 
waters  burst  through  rocky  barriers  with  roar 


Up  the  Gulch  193 

and  fury,  —  tortuous,  terrible  places,  such 
as  she  had  never  dreamed  of.  Coming  back 
from  one  of  these  drives,  two  days  after 
her  conversation  on  the  piazza  with  Peter 
Roeder,  she  met  him  riding  a  massive  roan. 
He  sat  the  animal  with  that  air  of  perfect 
unconsciousness  which  is  the  attribute  of 
the  Western  man,  and  his  attire,  even  to 
his  English  stock,  was  faultless, — faultily 
faultless. 

"I  hope  you  won't  object  to  havin'  me 
ride  beside  you,"  he  said,  wheeling  his 
horse.  To  tell  the  truth,  Kate  did  not 
object.  She  was  a  little  dull,  and  had  been 
conscious  all  the  morning  of  that  peculiar 
physical  depression  which  marks  the  begin- 
ning of  a  fit  of  homesickness. 

"The  wind  gits  a  fine  sweep,"  said 
Roeder,  after  having  obtained  the  permis- 
sion he  desired.  "Now  in  the  gulch  we 
either  had  a  dead  stagnation,  or  else  the 
wind  was  tearin'  up  and  down  like  a  wild 
beast." 

Kate  did  not  reply,  and  they  went  on 
together,  facing  the  riotous  wind. 

"  You  can't  guess  how  queer  it  seems  t' 


194          A  Mountain  Woman 

be  here,"  he  said,  confidentially.  "It  seems 
t'  me  as  if  I  had  come  from  some  other 
planet.  Thar  don't  rightly  seem  t'  be  no 
place  fur  me.  I  tell  you  what  it 's  like. 
It 's  as  if  I  'd  come  down  t'  enlist  in  th' 
ranks,  an'  found  'em  full,  —  every  man 
marchin'  along  in  his  place,  an'  no  place 
left  fur  me." 

Kate  could  not  find  a  reply. 

"  I  ain't  a  friend,  —  not  a  friend !  I  ain't 
complainin'.  It  ain't  th'  fault  of  any  one 

—  but   myself.       You   don'    know  what    a 
durned  fool  I  've  bin.     Someway,  up  thar  in 
th'  gulch  I  got  t'  seemin'  so  sort  of  impor- 
tant  t'   myself,   and  my  makin'   my  stake 
seemed  such  a  big  thing,  that  I  thought  I 
had  only  t'  come  down   here  t'   Helena  t' 
have  folks   want   t'    know  me.       I  did  n't 
particular  want   th'  money  because  it  wus 
money.     But  out  here  you  work  fur  it,  jest 
as  you  work  fur  other  things  in  other  places, 

—  jest  because  every  one  is  workin'  fur  it, 
and  it 's  the  man  who  gets  th'   most  that 
beats.      It   ain't   that   they   are   any  more 
greedy  than  men  anywhere  else.     My  pile  's 
a  pretty  good-sized  one.     An'  it 's  likely  to 


Up  the  Gulch  195 

be  bigger;  but  no  one  else  seems  t*  care. 
Th'  paper  printed  some  pieces  about  it. 
Some  of  th'  men  came  round  t'  see  me; 
but  I  saw  their  game.  I  said  I  guessed 
I  'd  look  further  fur  my  acquaintances.  I 
ain't  spoken  to  a  lady,  — not  a  real  lady, 
you  know,  —  t'  talk  with,  friendly  like,  but 
you,  fur  —  years." 

His  face  flushed  in  that  sudden  way  again. 
They  were  passing  some  of  those  preten- 
tious houses  which  rise  in  the  midst  of 
Helena's  ragged  streets  with  such  an  extra- 
neous air,  and  Kate  leaned  forward  to  look 
at  them.  The  driver,  seeing  her  interest, 
drew  up  the  horses  for  a  moment. 

"Fine,  fine!"  ejaculated  Roeder.  "But 
they  ain't  got  no  garden.  A  house  don't 
seem  anythin'  t'  me  without  a  garden. 
Do  you  know  what  I  think  would  be  th' 
most  beautiful  thing  in  th'  world?,  A 
baby  in  a  rose-garden!  Do  you  know,  I 
ain't  had  a  baby  in  my  hands,  excep'  Ned 
Ramsey's  little  kid,  once,  for  ten  year!  " 

Kate's  face  shone  with  sympathy. 

"  How  dreadful ! "  she  cried.  "  I  could  n  't 
live  without  a  baby  about." 


196  A  Mountain  Woman 

"Like  babies,  do  you?  Well,  well. 
Boys?  Like  boys?" 

"Not  a  bit  better  than  girls,"  said  Kate, 
stoutly. 

"I  like  boys,"  responded  Roeder,  with 
conviction.  "  My  mother  liked  boys.  She 
had  three  girls,  but  she  liked  me  a  damned 
sight  the  best." 

Kate  laughed  outright. 

"Why  do  you  swear?"  she  said.  "I 
never  heard  a  man  swear  before,  —  at  least, 
not  one  with  whom  I  was  talking.  That 's 
one  of  your  gulch  habits.  You  must  get 
over  it." 

Roeder' s  blond  face  turned  scarlet. 

"You  must  excuse  me,"  he  pleaded. 
"I'll  cure  myself  of  it!  Jest  give  me  a 
chance." 

This  was  a  little  more  personal  than  Kate 
approved  of,  and  she  raised  her  parasol  to 
conceal  her  annoyance.  It  was  a  brilliant 
little  fluff  of  a  thing  which  looked  as  if  it 
were  made  of  butterflies'  wings.  Roeder 
touched  it  with  awe. 

"You  have  sech  beautiful  things,"  he 
said.  "I  didn't  know  women  wore  sech 


Up  the  Gulch  197 

nice  things.  Now  that  dress  —  it 's  like 
—  I  don't  know  what  it 's  like."  It  was  a 
simple  little  taffeta,  with  warp  and  woof  of 
azure  and  of  cream,  and  gay  knots  of  ribbon 
about  it. 

"We  have  the  advantage  of  men,"  she 
said.  "I  often  think  one  of  the  greatest 
drawbacks  to  being  a  man  would  be  the 
sombre  clothes.  I  like  to  wear  the  prettiest 
things  that  can  be  found." 

"Lace?  "  queried  Roeder.  "Do  you  like 
lace?" 

"I  should  say  so!  Did  you  ever  see  a 
woman  who  didn't?" 

"  Hu — um !  These  women  I  've  known 
don't  know  lace,  —  these  wives  of  th'  men 
out  here.  They  're  th'  only  kind  I  've  seen 
this  long  time." 

"  Oh,  of  course,  but  I  mean  —  " 

"  I  know  what  you  mean.  My  mother  has 
a  chest  full  of  linen  an'  lace.  She  showed 
it  t'  me  th'  day  I  left.  'Peter,'  she  said, 
'  some  day  you  bring  a  wife  home  with  you, 
an'  I  '11  give  you  that  lace  an'  that  linen.' 
An'  I  'm  goin'  t'  do  it,  too,"  he  said  quietly. 

"I  hope  so,"  said  Kate,  with  her  eyes 


198  A  Mountain  Woman 

moist.      "I   hope  you  will,  and  that  your 
mother  will  be  very  happy." 

There  was  a  hop  at  the  hotel  that  night, 
and  it  was  almost  a  matter  of  courtesy  for 
Kate  to  go.  Ladies  were  in  demand,  for 
there  were  not  very  many  of  them  at  the 
hotel.  Every  one  was  expected  to  do  his 
best  to  make  it  a  success ;  and  Kate,  not  at 
all  averse  to  a  waltz  or  two,  dressed  herself 
for  the  occasion  with  her  habitual  striving 
after  artistic  effect.  She  was  one  of  those 
women  who  make  a  picture  of  themselves  as 
naturally  as  a  bird  sings.  She  had  an  opal 
necklace  which  Jack  had  given  her  because, 
he  said,  she  had  as  many  moods  as  an  opal 
had  colors ;  and  she  wore  this  with  a  crepe 
gown,  the  tint  of  the  green  lights  in  her 
necklace.  A  box  of  flowers  came  for  her  as 
she  was  dressing ;  they  were  Puritan  roses, 
and  Peter  Roeder's  card  was  in  the  midst 
of  them.  She  was  used  to  having  flowers 
given  her.  It  would  have  seemed  remark- 
able if  some  one  had  not  sent  her  a  bouquet 
when  she  was  going  to  a  ball. 

"I  shall  dance  but  twice,"   she  said  to 


Up  the  Gulch  199 

those  who  sought  her  for  a  partner. 
"Neither  more  nor  less." 

"Ain't  you  goin'  t'  dance  with  me  at 
all  ?  "  Roeder  managed  to  say  to  her  in  the 
midst  of  her  laughing  altercation  with  the 
gentlemen. 

"Dance  with  you!"  cried  Kate.  "How 
do  men  learn  to  dance  when  they  are  up  a 
gulch?" 

"I  ken  dance,"  he  said  stubbornly.  He 
was  mortified  at  her  chaffing. 

"  Then  you  may  have  the  second  waltz, " 
she  said,  in  quick  contrition.  "Now  you 
other  gentlemen  have  been  dancing  any 
number  of  times  these  last  fifteen  years. 
But  Mr.  Roeder  is  just  back  from  a  hard 
campaign,  —  a  campaign  against  fate.  My 
second  waltz  is  his.  And  I  shall  dance  my 
best." 

It  happened  to  be  just  the  right  sort  of 
speech.  The  women  tried  good-naturedly 
to  make  Roeder 's  evening  a  pleasant  one. 
They  were  filled  with  compassion  for  a  man 
who  had  not  enjoyed  the  society  of  their  sex 
for  fifteen  years.  They  found  much  amuse- 
ment in  leading  him  through  the  square 


2oo  A  Mountain  Woman 

dances,  the  forms  of  which  were  utterly 
unknown  to  him.  But  he  waltzed  with  a 
sort  of  serious  alertness  that  was  not  so  bad 
as  it  might  have  been. 

Kate  danced  well.  Her  slight  body 
seemed  as  full  of  the  spirit  of  the  waltz  as 
a  thrush's  body  is  of  song.  Peter  Roeder 
moved  along  with  her  in  a  maze,  only  half- 
answering  her  questions,  his  gray  eyes  full 
of  mystery. 

Once  they  stopped  for  a  moment,  and  he 
looked  down  at  her,  as  with  flushed  face  she 
stood  smiling  and  waving  her  gossamer  fan, 
each  motion  stirring  the  frail  leaves  of  the 
roses  he  had  sent  her. 

"  It's  cur'ous,"  he  said  softly,  "but  I  keep 
thinkin'  about  that  black  gulch." 

"Forget  it,"  she  said.  "Why  do  you 
think  of  a  gulch  when  — "  She  stopped 
with  a  sudden  recollection  that  he  was  not 
used  to  persiflage.  But  he  anticipated  what 
she  was  about  to  say. 

"Why  think  of  the  gulch  when  you  are 
here?"  he  said.  "Why,  because  it  is  only 
th'  gulch  that  seems  real.  All  this, —  these 
pleasant,  polite  people,  this  beautiful  room, 


Up  the  Gulch  201 

th'  flowers  everywhere,  and  you,  and  me  as 
I  am,  seem  as  if  I  was  dreamin'.  Thar 
ain't  anything  in  it  all  that  is  like  what  I 
thought  it  would  be." 

"  Not  as  you  thought  it  would  be?  " 

"No.  Different.  I  thought  it  would  be 
—  well,  I  thought  th'  people  would  not  be 
quite  so  high-toned.  I  hope  you  don't  mind 
that  word." 

"  Not  in  the  least, "  she  said.  "  It 's  a  mu- 
sical term.  It  applies  very  well  to  people. " 

They  took  up  the  dance  again  and  waltzed 
breathlessly  till  the  close.  Kate  was  tired; 
the  exertion  had  been  a  little  more  than  she 
had  bargained  for.  She  sat  very  still  on  the 
veranda  under  the  white  glare  of  an  electric 
ball,  and  let  Roeder  do  the  talking.  Her 
thoughts,  in  spite  of  the  entertainment  she 
was  deriving  from  her  present  experiences, 
would  go  back  to  the  babies.  She  saw  them 
tucked  well  in  bed,  each  in  a  little  iron  crib, 
with  the  muslin  curtains  shielding  their  rosy 
faces  from  the  light.  She  wondered  if  Jack 
were  reading  alone  in  the  library  or  was  at 
the  club,  or  perhaps  at  the  summer  con- 
cert, with  the  swell  of  the  violins  in  his 


2O2  A  Mountain  Woman 

ears.  Jack  did  so  love  music.  As  she 
thought  how  delicate  his  perceptions  were, 
how  he  responded  to  everything  most  subtle 
in  nature  and  in  art,  of  how  life  itself  was 
a  fine  art  with  him,  and  joy  a  thing  to  be 
cultivated,  she  turned  with  a  sense  of  deep 
compassion  to  the  simple  man  by  her  side. 
His  rough  face  looked  a  little  more  unat- 
tractive than  usual.  His  evening  clothes 
were  almost  grotesque.  His  face  wore  a 
look  of  solitude,  of  hunger. 

"  What  were  you  saying  ? "  she  said, 
dreamily.  "I  beg  your  pardon." 

"I  was  sayin'  how  I  used  t'  dream  of 
sittin'  on  the  steps  of  a  hotel  like  this,  and 
not  havin'  a  thing  t'  do.  When  I  used  t' 
come  down  here  out  of  the  gulch,  and  see 
men  who  had  had  good  dinners,  an'  good 
baths,  sittin'  around  smokin',  with  money 
t'  go  over  there  t'  th'  bookstan'  an'  get  any- 
thin'  they  'd  want,  it  used  t'  seem  t'  me 
about  all  a  single  man  could  wish  fur." 

"Well,  you  've  got  it  all  now." 

"  But  I  did  n't  any  of  th'  time  suppose 
that  would  satisfy  a  man  long.  Only  I  was 
so  darned  tired  I  couldn't  help  wantin'  t' 


Up  the  Gulch  203 

rest.  But  I  'm  not  so  selfish  ur  s'  narrow 
as  to  be  satisfied  with  that.  No,  I  'm  not 
goin'  t'  spend  m'  pile  that  way  —  quite ! " 

He  laughed  out  loud,  and  then  sat  in 
silence  watching  Kate  as  she  lay  back 
wearily  in  her  chair. 

"I  've  got  t'  have  that  there  garden,"  he 
said,  laughingly.  "Got  t'  get  them  roses. 
An'  I  '11  have  a  big  bath-house,  —  plenty  of 
springs  in  this  country.  You  ken  have  a 
bath  here  that  won't  freeze  summer  nor 
winter.  An'  a  baby !  I  've  got  t'  have  a 
baby.  He'll  go  with  th'  roses  an'  th' 
bath."  He  laughed  again  heartily. 

"It's  a  queer  joke,  isn't  it?"  Roeder 
asked.  "Talkin'  about  my  baby,  an'  I 
have  n't  even  a  wife. "  His  face  flushed  and 
he  turned  his  eyes  away. 

"  Have  I  shown  you  the  pictures  of  my 
babies?  "  Kate  inquired.  "You  'd  like  my 
boy,  I  know.  And  my  girl  is  just  like  me, 
—  in  miniature. " 

There  was  a  silence.  She  looked  up 
after  a  moment.  Roeder  appeared  to  be 
examining  the  monogram  on  his  ring  as  if 
he  had  never  seen  it  before. 


204  A  Mountain  Woman 

"I  did  n't  understand  that  you  were  mar- 
ried," he  said  gently. 

"Didn't  you?  I  don't  think  you  ever 
called  me  by  any  name  at  all,  or  I  should 
have  noticed  your  mistake  and  set  you  right. 
Yes,  I  'm  married.  I  came  out  here  to  get 
strong  for  the  babies. " 

"  Got  a  boy  an'  a  girl,  eh? " 

"Yes." 

"Howold'sth'boy?" 

"Five." 

"An'  th'  girl?" 

"She '11  soon  be  four." 

"An'  yer  husband  —  he  's  livin'  ? " 

"  I  should  say  so !  I  'm  a  very  happy 
woman,  Mr.  Roeder.  If  only  I  were 
stronger ! " 

"Yer  lookin'  much  better,"  he  said, 
gravely,  "than  when  you  come.  You  '11  be 
all  right." 

The  moon  began  to  come  up  scarlet 
beyond  the  eastern  hills.  The  two  watched 
it  in  silence.  Kate  had  a  feeling  of  guilt, 
as  if  she  had  been  hurting  some  helpless 
thing. 

"I  was  in  hopes,"  he  said,  suddenly,  in  a 


Up  the  Gulch  205 

voice  that  seemed  abrupt  and  shrill,  "thet 
you  'd  see  fit  t'  stay  here." 

"Here  in  Helena?     Oh,  no!" 

"I  was  thinkin'  I  'd  offer  you  that  two 
hundred  thousand  dollars,  if  you'd  stay." 

"Mr.  Roeder!  You  don't  mean  — 
surely  —  " 

"Why,  yes.  Why  not?"  He  spoke 
rather  doggedly.  "I  '11  never  see  no  other 
woman  like  you.  You  're  different  from 
others.  How  good  you  've  been  t'  me ! " 

"Good!  I  'm  afraid  I  Jve  been  very  bad 
—  at  least,  very  stupid. " 

"  I  say,  now  —  your  husband  's  good  t' 
you,  ain't  he? " 

"He  is  the  kindest  man  that  ever  lived." 

"Oh,  well,  I  did  n't  know." 

A  rather  awkward  pause  followed  which 
was  broken  by  Roeder. 

"  I  don't  see  jest  what  I  'm  goin'  t'  do 
with  that  thar  two  hundred  thousand  dol- 
lars," he  said,  mournfully. 

"  Do  with  it  ?  Why,  live  with  it !  Send 
some  to  your  mother. " 

"  Oh,  I  've  done  that.  Five  thousand 
dollars.  It  don't  seem  much  here;  but  it  '11 


206  A  Mountain  Woman 

seem  a  lot  t'  her.  I  'd  send  her  more,  only 
it  would  've  bothered  her. " 

"  Then  there  is  your  house,  —  the  house 
with  the  bath-room.  But  I  suppose  you  '11 
have  other  rooms  ?  " 

Peter  laughed  a  little  in  spite  of  himself. 

"I  guess  I  won't  have  a  house,"  he  said. 
"An'  I  could  n't  make  a  garden  alone." 

"Hire  a  man  to  help  you."  Kate  was 
trembling,  but  she  kept  talking  gayly.  She 
was  praying  that  nothing  very  serious  would 
happen.  There  was  an  undercurrent  of  som- 
breness  in  the  man's  manner  that  frightened 
her. 

"I  guess  I  '11  jest  have  t'  keep  on 
dreamin'  of  that  boy  playin'  with  th'  roses." 

"No,  no,"  cried  Kate;  "he  will  come 
true  some  day !  I  know  he  '11  come  true." 

Peter  got  up  and  stood  by  her  chair. 

"You  don't  know  nothin'  about  it,"  he 
said.  "You  don't  know,  an'  you  can't  know 
what  it  's  bin  t'  me  t'  talk  with  you.  Here 
I  come  out  of  a  place  where  there  ain't  no 
sound  but  the  water  and  the  pines.  Years 
come  an'  go.  Still  no  sound.  Only 
thinkin',  thinking  thinkin' !  Missin'  all 


Up  the  Gulch  207 

th'  things  men  care  fur!  Dreamin*  of  a 
time  when  I  sh'd  strike  th'  pile.  Then  I 
seed  home,  wife,  a  boy,  flowers,  everythin'. 
You  're  so  beautiful,  an*  you  're  so  good. 
You  've  a  way  of  pickin'  a  man's  heart  right 
out  of  him.  First  time  I  set  my  eyes  on 
you  I  thought  you  were  th'  nicest  thing  I 
ever  see!  And  how  little  you  are!  That 
hand  of  yours,  —  look  at  it,  —  it 's  like  a 
leaf!  An'  how  easy  you  smile.  Up  th' 
gulch  we  didn't  smile;  we  laughed,  but 
gen'ly  because  some  one  got  in  a  fix.  Then 
your  voice !  Ah,  I  've  thought  fur  years 
that  some  day  I  might  hear  a  voice  like 
that!  Don't  you  go!  Sit  still!  I  'm  not 
blamin'  you  fur  anythin'  ;  but  I  may 
never,  's  long  's  I  live,  find  any  one  who 
will  understand  things  th'  way  you  under- 
stand 'em.  Here!  I  tell  you  about  that 
gulch  an'  you  see  that  gulch.  You  know 
how  th'  rain  sounded  thar,  an'  how  th' 
shack  looked,  an'  th'  life  I  led,  an'  all  th' 
thoughts  I  had,  an'  th'  long  nights,  an' 
th'  times  when  —  but  never  mind.  I  know 
you  know  it  all.  I  saw  it  in  yer  eyes.  I 
tell  you  of  mother,  an'  you  see  'er.  You 


208  A  Mountain  Woman 

know  'er  old  German  face,  an'  'er  proud 
ways,  an'  her  pride  in  me,  an'  how  she 
would  think  I  wuz  awfully  rich.  An'  you 
see  how  she  would  give  out  them  linens,  all 
marked  fur  my  wife,  an*  how  I  would  sit 
an'  watch  her  doin'  it,  an'  —  you  see  every- 
thing. I  know  you  do.  I  could  feel  you 
doin'  it.  Then  I  say  to  myself:  '  Here  is 
th'  one  woman  in  th'  world  made  fur  me. 
Whatever  I  have,  she  shall  have.  I  '11 
spend  my  life  waitin'  on  her.  She  '11  tell 
me  all  th'  things  I  ought  t'  know,  an'  hev 
missed  knowin' ;  she '11  read  t'  me;  she'll 
be  patient  when  she  finds  how  dull  I  've 
grown.  And  thar'll  be  th'  boy—'" 

He  seized  her  hand  and  wrung  it,  and  was 
gone.  Kate  saw  him  no  more  that  night. 

The  next  morning  the  major  returned. 
Kate  threw  her  arms  around  his  neck  and 
wept. 

"  I  want  the  babies, "  she  explained  when 
the  major  showed  his  consternation.  "  Don't 
mind  my  crying.  You  ought  to  be  used  to 
seeing  me  cry  by  this  time.  I  must  get 
home,  that 's  all.  I  must  see  Jack." 

So  that  night  they  started. 


Up  the  Gulch  209 

At  the  door  of  the  carriage  stood  Peter 
Roeder,  waiting. 

"I  'm  going  t'  ride  down  with  you,"  he 
said.  The  major  looked  nonplussed. 

Kate  got  in  and  the  major  followed. 

"Come,"  she  said  to  Roeder.  He  sat 
opposite  and  looked  at  her  as  if  he  would 
fasten  her  image  on  his  mind. 

"You  remember,"  he  said  after  a  time, 
"that  I  told  you  I  used  t'  dream  of  sittin'  on 
the  veranda  of  th'  hotel  and  havin'  nothin' 
t'  do?" 

"Yes." 

"Well,  I  don't  think  I  care  fur  it.  I  've 
had  a  month  of  it.  I  'm  goin'  back  up 
th'  gulch." 

"  No !  "  cried  Kate,  instinctively  reaching 
out  her  hands  toward  him. 

"  Why  not  ?  I  guess  you  don't  know  me. 
I  knew  that  somewhere  I  'd  find  a  friend.  I 
found  that  friend;  an'  now  I  'm  alone 
again.  It 's  pretty  quiet  up  thar  in  the 
gulch;  but  I  '11  try  it." 

"No,  no.  Go  to  Europe;  go  to  see  your 
mother. " 

"I  thought  about  that  a  good  deal,    a 
14 


2io  A  Mountain  Woman 

while  ago.  But  I  don't  seem  t'  have  no 
heart  fur  it  now.  I  feel  as  if  I  'd  be  safer 
in  th'  gulch." 

"Safer?" 

"The  world  looks  pretty  big.  It's  safe 
and  close  in  th'  gulch. " 

At  the  station  the  major  went  to  look 
after  the  trunks,  and  Roeder  put  Kate  in 
her  seat. 

"I  wanted  t'  give  you  something"  he 
said,  seating  himself  beside  her,  "but  I 
didn't  dare." 

"Oh,  my  dear  friend,"  she  cried,  laying 
her  little  gloved  hand  on  his  red  and  knotted 
one,  "don't  go  back  into  the  shadow.  Do 
not  return  to  that  terrible  silence.  Wait. 
Have  patience.  Fate  has  brought  you 
wealth.  It  will  bring  you  love." 

"I  've  somethin'  to  ask,"  he  said,  paying 
no  attention  to  her  appeal.  "You  must 
answer  it.  If  we  'a*  met  long  ago,  an'  you 
hadn't  a  husband  or  —  any  thin' — do  you 
think  you  'd  've  loved  me  then?  " 

She  felt  herself  turning  white. 

"No,"  she  said  softly.  "I  could  never 
have  loved  you,  my  dear  friend.  We  are 


Up  the  Gulch  211 

not  the  same.  Believe  me,  there  is  a 
woman  somewhere  who  will  love  you;  but 
I  am  not  that  woman  —  nor  could  I  have 
ever  been." 

The  train  was  starting.  The  major  came 
bustling  in. 

"Well,  good-by,"  said  Roeder,  holding 
out  his  hand  to  Kate. 

"Good-by,"  she  cried.  "Don't  go  back 
up  the  gulch. " 

"Oh,"  he  said,  reassuringly,  "don't  you 
worry  about  me,  my  —  don't  worry.  The 
gulch  is  a  nice,  quiet  place.  An'  you  know 
what  I  told  you  about  th'  ranks  all  bein' 
full.  Good-by."  The  train  was  well  under 
way.  He  sprang  off,  and  stood  on  the 
platform  waving  his  handkerchief. 

"Well,  Kate,"  said  the  major,  seating 
himself  down  comfortably  and  adjusting  his 
travelling  cap,  "did  you  find  the  Western 
type?" 

"I  don't  quite  know,"  said  she,  slowly. 
"But  I  have  made  the  discovery  that  a 
human  soul  is  much  the  same  wherever  you 
meet  it. " 

"  Dear  me !     You  have  n  't  been  meeting 


212  A  Mountain  Woman 

a  soul,  have  you?"  the  major  said,  face- 
tiously, unbuckling  his  travelling-bag.  "I  '11 
tell  Jack." 

"No,  I'll  tell  Jack.  And  he'll  feel 
quite  as  badly  as  I  do  to  think  that  I  could 
do  nothing  for  its  proper  adjustment." 

The  major's  face  took  on  a  look  of  com- 
prehension. 

"Was  that  the  soul,"  he  asked,  "that  just 
came  down  in  the  carriage  with  us  ?  " 

"That  was  it,"  assented  Kate.  "It  was 
born;  it  has  had  its  mortal  day;  and  it 
has  gone  back  up  the  gulch." 


A  Michigan   Man 


A   Michigan   Man 


A  PINE  forest  is  nature's  expression  of 
solemnity  and  solitude.  Sunlight, 
rivers,  cascades,  people,  music,  laughter,  or 
dancing  could  not  make  it  gay.  With  its 
unceasing  reverberations  and  its  eternal 
shadows,  it  is  as  awful  and  as  holy  as  a 
cathedral. 

Thirty  good  fellows  working  together  by 
day  and  drinking  together  by  night  can  keep 
up  but  a  moody  imitation  of  jollity.  Spend 
twenty-five  of  your  forty  years,  as  Luther 
Dallas  did,  in  this  perennial  gloom,  and 
your  soul  —  that  which  enjoys,  aspires, 
competes  —  will  be  drugged  as  deep  as  if 
you  had  quaffed  the  cup  of  oblivion. 
Luther  Dallas  was  counted  one  of  the  most 
experienced  axe-men  in  the  northern  camps. 
He  could  fell  a  tree  with  the  swift  surety  of 
an  executioner,  and  in  revenge  for  his  many 


216          A  Mountain  Woman 

arboral  murders  the  woodland  had  taken 
captive  his  mind,  captured  and  chained  it 
as  Prospero  did  Ariel.  The  resounding 
footsteps  of  Progress  driven  on  so  merci- 
lessly in  this  mad  age  could  not  reach  his 
fastness.  It  did  not  concern  him  that  men 
were  thinking,  investigating,  inventing. 
His  senses  responded  only  to  the  sonorous 
music  of  the  woods ;  a  steadfast  wind  ring- 
ing metallic  melody  from  the  pine-tops  con- 
tented him  as  the  sound  of  the  sea  does  the 
sailor ;  and  dear  as  the  odors  of  the  ocean  to 
the  mariner  were  the  resinous  scents  of  the 
forest  to  him.  Like  a  sailor,  too,  he  had 
his  superstitions.  He  had  a  presentiment 
that  he  was  to  die  by  one  of  these  trees,  — 
that  some  day,  in  chopping,  the  tree  would 
fall  upon  and  crush  him  as  it  did  his  father 
the  day  they  brought  him  back  to  the  camp 
on  a  litter  of  pine  boughs. 

One  day  the  gang-boss  noticed  a  tree  that 
Dallas  had  left  standing  in  a  most  unwood- 
manlike  manner  in  the  section  which  was 
allotted  to  him. 

"  What  in  thunder  is  that  standing  there 
for?"  he  asked. 


A  Michigan  Man  217 

Dallas  raised  his  eyes  to  the  pine,  tower- 
ing in  stern  dignity  a  hundred  feet  above 
them. 

"Well,"  he  said  feebly,  "I  noticed  it,  but 
kind-aleft  it  t'  the  last." 

"Cut  it  down  to-morrow,"  was  the 
response. 

The  wind  was  rising,  and  the  tree  mut- 
tered savagely.  Luther  thought  it  sounded 
like  a  menace,  and  turned  pale.  No  trou- 
ble has  yet  been  found  that  will  keep  a  man 
awake  in  the  keen  air  of  the  pineries  after 
he  has  been  swinging  his  axe  all  day,  but 
the  sleep  of  the  chopper  was  so  broken  with 
disturbing  dreams  that  night  that  the  beads 
gathered  on  his  brow,  and  twice  he  cried 
aloud.  He  ate  his  coarse  flap- jacks  in  the 
morning  and  escaped  from  the  smoky  shanty 
as  soon  as  he  could. 

"It'll  bring  bad  luck,  I'm  afraid,"  he 
muttered  as  he  went  to  get  his  axe  from  the 
rack.  He  was  as  fond  of  his  axe  as  a  soldier 
of  his  musket,  but  to-day  he  shouldered  it 
with  reluctance.  He  felt  like  a  man  with 
his  destiny  before  him.  The  tree  stood 
like  a  sentinel.  He  raised  his  axe,  once, 


21 8          A  Mountain  Woman 

twice,  a  dozen  times,  but  could  not  bring 
himself  to  make  a  cut  in  the  bark.  He 
walked  backwards  a  few  steps  and  looked  up. 
The  funereal  green  seemed  to  grow  darker 
and  darker  till  it  became  black.  It  was  the 
embodiment  of  sorrow.  Was  it  not  shaking 
giant  arms  at  him  ?  Did  it  not  cry  out  in 
angry  challenge?  Luther  did  not  try  to 
laugh  at  his  fears;  he  had  never  seen  any 
humor  in  life.  A  gust  of  wind  had  some- 
way crept  through  the  dense  barricade  of 
foliage  that  flanked  the  clearing,  and  struck 
him  with  an  icy  chill.  He  looked  at  the 
sky;  the  day  was  advancing  rapidly.  He 
went  at  his  work  with  an  energy  as  deter- 
mined as  despair.  The  axe  in  his  practised 
hand  made  clean  straight  cuts  in  the  trunk, 
now  on  this  side,  now  on  that.  His  task 
was  not  an  easy  one,  but  he  finished  it  with 
wonderful  expedition.  After  the  chopping 
was  finished,  the  tree  stood  firm  a  moment; 
then,  as  the  tensely-strained  fibres  began  a 
weird  moaning,  he  sprang  aside,  and  stood 
waiting.  In  the  distance  he  saw  two  men 
hewing  a  log.  The  axe-man  sent  them  a 
shout  and  threw  up  his  arms  for  them  to 


A  Michigan  Man  219 

look.  The  tree  stood  out  clear  and  beauti- 
ful against  the  gray  sky;  the  men  ceased 
their  work  and  watched  it.  The  vibrations 
became  more  violent,  and  the  sounds  they 
produced  grew  louder  and  louder  till  they 
reached  a  shrill  wild  cry.  There  came  a 
pause,  then  a  deep  shuddering  groan.  The 
topmost  branches  began  to  move  slowly,  the 
whole  stately  bulk  swayed,  and  then  shot 
towards  the  ground.  The  gigantic  trunk 
bounded  from  the  stump,  recoiled  like  a 
cannon,  crashed  down,  and  lay  conquered, 
with  a  roar  as  of  an  earthquake,  in  a  cloud 
of  flying  twigs  and  chips. 

When  the  dust  had  cleared  away,  the  men 
at  the  log  on  the  outside  of  the  clearing 
could  not  see  Luther.  They  ran  to  the 
spot,  and  found  him  lying  on  the  ground 
with  his  chest  crushed  in.  His  fearful  eyes 
had  not  rightly  calculated  the  distance  from 
the  stump  to  the  top  of  the  pine,  nor  rightly 
weighed  the  power  of  the  massed  branches, 
and  so,  standing  spell-bound,  watching  the 
descending  trunk  as  one  might  watch  his 
Nemesis,  the  rebound  came  and  left  him 
lying  worse  than  dead. 


22O          A  Mountain  Woman 

Three  months  later,  when  the  logs, 
lopped  of  their  branches,  drifted  down  the 
streams,  the  woodman,  a  human  log  lopped 
of  his  strength,  drifted  to  a  great  city.  A 
change,  the  doctor  said,  might  prolong  his 
life.  The  lumbermen  made  up  a  purse,  and 
he  started  out,  not  very  definitely  knowing 
his  destination.  He  had  a  sister,  much 
younger  than  himself,  who  at  the  age  of  six- 
teen had  married  and  gone,  he  believed,  to 
Chicago.  That  was  years  ago,  but  he  had 
an  idea  that  he  might  find  her.  He  was 
not  troubled  by  his  lack  of  resources;  he 
did  not  believe  that  any  man  would  want 
for  a  meal  unless  he  were  "shiftless." 
He  had  always  been  able  to  turn  his  hand 
to  something. 

He  felt  too  ill  from  the  jostling  of  the 
cars  to  notice  much  of  anything  on  the  jour- 
ney. The  dizzy  scenes  whirling  past  made 
him  faint,  and  he  was  glad  to  lie  with 
closed  eyes.  He  imagined  that  his  little 
sister  in  her  pink  calico  frock  and  bare  feet 
(as  he  remembered  her)  would  be  at  the  sta- 
tion to  meet  him.  "Oh,  Lu!"  she  would 
call  from  some  hiding-place,  and  he  would 
go  and  find  her. 


A  Michigan  Man  221 

The  conductor  stopped  by  Luther's  seat 
and  said  that  they  were  in  the  city  at  last ; 
but  it  seemed  to  the  sick  man  as  if  they 
went  miles  after  that,  with  a  multitude  of 
twinkling  lights  on  one  side  and  a  blank 
darkness,  that  they  told  him  was  the  lake, 
on  the  other.  The  conductor  again  stopped 
by  his  seat. 

"Well,  my  man,"  said  he,  "how  are  you 
feeling?" 

Luther,  the  possessor  of  the  toughest 
muscles  in  the  gang,  felt  a  sick  man's  irri- 
tation at  the  tone  of  pity. 

"  Oh,  I  'm  all  right ! "  he  said,  gruffly,  and 
shook  off  the  assistance  the  conductor  tried 
to  offer  with  his  overcoat.  "I  'm  going  to 
my  sister's,"  he  explained,  in  answer  to  the 
inquiry  as  to  where  he  was  going.  The 
man,  somewhat  piqued  at  the  spirit  in 
which  his  overtures  were  met,  left  him,  and 
Luther  stepped  on  to  the  platform.  There 
was  a  long  vista  of  semi-light,  down  which 
crowds  of  people  walked  and  baggage-men 
rushed.  The  building,  if  it  deserved  the 
name,  seemed  a  ruin,  and  through  the  arched 
doors  Luther  could  see  men  —  hackmen — • 


222          A  Mountain  Woman 

dancing  and  howling  like  dervishes.  Trains 
were  coming  and  going,  and  the  whistles 
and  bells  kept  up  a  ceaseless  clangor. 
Luther,  with  his  small  satchel  and  uncouth 
dress,  slouched  by  the  crowd  unnoticed,  and 
reached  the  street.  He  walked  amid  such 
an  illumination  as  he  had  never  dreamed 
of,  and  paused  half  blinded  in  the  glare  of 
a  broad  sheet  of  electric  light  that  filled  a 
pillared  entrance  into  which  many  people 
passed.  He  looked  about  him.  Above  on 
every  side  rose  great,  many- windowed  build- 
ings; on  the  street  the  cars  and  carriages 
thronged,  and  jostling  crowds  dashed  head- 
long among  the  vehicles.  After  a  time  he 
turned  down  a  street  that  seemed  to  him  a 
pandemonium  filled  with  madmen.  It  went 
to  his  head  like  wine,  and  hardly  left  him 
the  presence  of  mind  to  sustain  a  quiet 
exterior.  The  wind  was  laden  with  a  pene- 
trating moisture  that  chilled  him  as  the  dry 
icy  breezes  from  Huron  never  had  done,  and 
the  pain  in  his  lungs  made  him  faint  and 
dizzy.  He  wondered  if  his  red-cheeked 
little  sister  could  live  in  one  of  those  vast, 
impregnable  buildings.  He  thought  of 


A  Michigan  Man  223 

stopping  some  of  those  serious-looking  men 
and  asking  them  if  they  knew  her ;  but  he 
could  not  muster  up  the  courage.  The 
distressing  experience  that  comes  to  almost 
every  one  some  time  in  life,  of  losing  all 
identity  in  the  universal  humanity,  was 
becoming  his.  The  tears  began  to  roll 
down  his  wasted  face  from  loneliness  and 
exhaustion.  He  grew  hungry  with  longing 
for  the  dirty  but  familiar  cabins  of  the 
camp,  and  staggered  along  with  eyes  half 
closed,  conjuring  visions  of  the  warm  inte- 
riors, the  leaping  fires,  the  groups  of 
laughing  men  seen  dimly  through  clouds  of 
tobacco-smoke. 

A  delicious  scent  of  coffee  met  his  hun- 
gry sense  and  made  him  really  think  he  was 
taking  the  savory  black  draught  from  his 
familiar  tin  cup;  but  the  muddy  streets, 
the  blinding  lights,  the  cruel,  rushing  peo- 
ple, were  still  there.  The  buildings,  how- 
ever, now  became  different.  They  were 
lower  and  meaner,  with  dirty  windows. 
Women  laughing  loudly  crowded  about  the 
doors,  and  the  establishments  seemed  to 
be  equally  divided  between  saloon-keepers, 


224          A  Mountain  Woman 

pawnbrokers,  and  dealers  in  second-hand 
clothes.  Luther  wondered  where  they  all 
drew  their  support  from.  Upon  one  sign- 
board he  read,  "Lodgings  10  cents  to  50 
cents.  A  Square  Meal  for  15  cents,"  and, 
thankful  for  some  haven,  entered.  Here  he 
spent  his  first  night  and  other  nights,  while 
his  purse  dwindled  and  his  strength  waned. 
At  last  he  got  a  man  in  a  drug-store  to 
search  the  directory  for  his  sister's  resi- 
dence. They  found  a  name  he  took  to  be 
his  brother-in-law's.  It  was  two  days  later 
when  he  found  the  address,  —  a  great,  many- 
storied  mansion  on  one  of  the  southern 
boulevards,  —  and  found  also  that  his  search 
had  been  in  vain.  Sore  and  faint,  he  stag- 
gered back  to  his  miserable  shelter,  only  to 
arise  feverish  and  ill  in  the  morning.  He 
frequented  the  great  shop  doors,  thronged 
with  brilliantly-dressed  ladies,  and  watched 
to  see  if  his  little  sister  might  not  dash  up 
in  one  of  those  satin-lined  coaches  and  take 
him  where  he  would  be  warm  and  safe  and 
would  sleep  undisturbed  by  drunken,  ribald 
songs  and  loathsome  surroundings.  There 
were  days  when  he  almost  forgot  his  name, 


A  Michigan  Man  225 

and,  striving  to  remember,  would  lose  his 
senses  for  a  moment  and  drift  back  to  the 
harmonious  solitudes  of  the  North  and 
breathe  the  resin-scented  frosty  atmosphere. 
He  grew  terrified  at  the  blood  he  coughed 
from  his  lacerated  lungs,  and  wondered  bit- 
terly why  the  boys  did  not  come  to  take 
him  home. 

One  day,  as  he  painfully  dragged  himself 
down  a  residence  street,  he  tried  to  collect 
his  thoughts  and  form  some  plan  for  the 
future.  He  had  no  trade,  understood  no 
handiwork;  he  could  fell  trees.  He  looked 
at  the  gaunt,  scrawny,  transplanted  speci- 
mens that  met  his  eye,  and  gave  himself  up 
to  the  homesickness  that  filled  his  soul. 
He  slept  that  night  in  the  shelter  of  a  sta- 
ble, and  spent  his  last  money  in  the  morn- 
ing for  a  biscuit. 

He  travelled  many  miles  that  afternoon 
looking  for  something  to  which  he  might 
turn  his  hand.  Once  he  got  permission  to 
carry  a  hod  for  half  an  hour.  At  the  end  of 
that  time  he  fainted.  When  he  recovered, 
the  foreman  paid  him  twenty-five  cents. 
"For  God's  sake,  man,  go  home,"  he  said. 


226          A  Mountain  Woman 

Luther  stared  at  him  with  a  white  face  and 
went  on. 

There  came  days  when  he  so  forgot  his 
native  dignity  as  to  beg.  He  seldom 
received  anything;  he  was  referred  to  vari- 
ous charitable  institutions  the  existence  of 
which  he  had  never  heard. 

One  morning,  when  a  pall  of  smoke  enve- 
loped the  city  and  the  odors  of  coal-gas 
refused  to  lift  their  nauseating  poison 
through  the  heavy  air,  Luther,  chilled  with 
dew  and  famished,  awoke  to  a  happier  life. 
The  loneliness  at  his  heart  was  gone.  The 
feeling  of  hopeless  imprisonment  that  the 
miles  and  miles  of  streets  had  terrified  him 
with  gave  place  to  one  of  freedom  and  exal- 
tation. Above  him  he  heard  the  rasping  of 
pine  boughs ;  his  feet  trod  on  a  rebounding 
mat  of  decay ;  the  sky  was  as  coldly  blue  as 
the  bosom  of  Huron.  He  walked  as  if  on 
ether,  singing  a  senseless  jargon  the  wood- 
men had  aroused  the  echoes  with,  — 

"  Hi  yi  halloo! 
The  owl  sees  you ! 
Look  what  you  do  ! 
Hi  yi  halloo  !  " 


A  Michigan  Man  227 

Swung  over  his  shoulder  was  a  stick  he 
had  used  to  assist  his  limping  gait,  but  now 
transformed  into  the  beloved  axe.  He 
would  reach  the  clearing  soon,  he  thought, 
and  strode  on  like  a  giant,  while  people  hur- 
ried from  his  path.  Suddenly  a  smooth 
trunk,  stripped  of  its  bark  and  bleached  by 
weather,  arose  before  him. 

"  Hi  yi  halloo !  "  High  went  the  wasted 
arm  —  crash!  —  a  broken  staff,  a  jingle  of 
wires,  a  maddened,  shouting  man  the  centre 
of  a  group  of  amused  spectators!  A  few 
moments  later,  four  broad-shouldered  men 
in  blue  had  him  in  their  grasp,  pinioned  and 
guarded,  clattering  over  the  noisy  streets 
behind  two  spirited  horses.  They  drew 
after  them  a  troop  of  noisy,  jeering  boys, 
who  danced  about  the  wagon  like  a  swirl 
of  autumn  leaves.  Then  came  a  halt,  and 
Luther  was  dragged  up  the  steps  of  a  square 
brick  building  with  a  belfry  on  the  top. 
They  entered  a  large  bare  room  with 
benches  ranged  about  the  walls,  and  brought 
him  before  a  man  at  a  desk. 

"  What  is  your  name  ?  "  asked  the  man  at 
the  desk. 


228          A  Mountain  Woman 

"  Hi  yi  halloo ! "  said  Luther. 

"He's  drunk,  sergeant,"  said  one  of  the 
men  in  blue,  and  the  axe-man  was  led  into 
the  basement.  He  was  conscious  of  an 
involuntary  resistance,  a  short  struggle,  and 
a  final  shock  of  pain,  —  then  oblivion. 

The  chopper  awoke  to  the  realization  of 
three  stone  walls  and  an  iron  grating  in 
front.  Through  this  he  looked  out  upon 
a  stone  flooring  across  which  was  a  row  of 
similar  apartments.  He  neither  knew  nor 
cared  where  he  was.  The  feeling  of  im- 
prisonment was  no  greater  than  he  had  felt 
on  the  endless,  cheerless  streets.  He  laid 
himself  on  the  bench  that  ran  along  a  side 
wall,  and,  closing  his  eyes,  listened  to  the 
babble  of  the  clear  stream  and  the  thunder 
of  the  "drive"  on  its  journey.  How  the 
logs  hurried  and  jostled !  crushing,  whirling, 
ducking,  with  the  merry  lads  leaping  about 
them  with  shouts  and  laughter.  Suddenly 
he  was  recalled  by  a  voice.  Some  one 
handed  a  narrow  tin  cup  full  of  coffee  and 
a  thick  slice  of  bread  through  the  grating. 
Across  the  way  he  dimly  saw  a  man  eating 
a  similar  slice  of  bread.  Men  in  other  com- 


A  Michigan  Man  229 

partments  were  swearing  and  singing.  He 
knew  these  now  for  the  voices  he  had  heard 
in  his  dreams.  He  tried  to  force  some  of 
the  bread  down  his  parched  and  swollen 
throat,  but  failed ;  the  coffee  strangled  him, 
and  he  threw  himself  upon  the  bench. 

The  forest  again,  the  night-wind,  the 
whistle  of  the  axe  through  the  air.  Once 
when  he  opened  his  eyes  he  found  it  dark. 
It  would  soon  be  time  to  go  to  work.  He 
fancied  there  would  be  hoar-frost  on  the 
trees  in  the  morning.  How  close  the  cabin 
seemed !  Ha !  —  here  came  his  little  sister. 
Her  voice  sounded  like  the  wind  on  a 
spring  morning.  How  loud  it  swelled  now ! 
"Lu!  Lu!"  she  cried. 

The  next  morning  the  lock-up  keeper 
opened  the  cell  door.  Luther  lay  with  his 
head  in  a  pool  of  blood.  His  soul  had 
escaped  from  the  thrall  of  the  forest. 

"  Well,  well !  "  said  the  little  fat  police- 
justice,  when  he  was  told  of  it.  "  We  ought 
to  have  a  doctor  around  to  look  after  such 


A   Lady  of  Yesterday 


A   Lady   of  Yesterday 


"    A     LIGHT  wind  blew  from   the   gates 

Jr\  of  the  sun,"  the  morning  she  first 
walked  down  the  street  of  the  little  Iowa 
town.  Not  a  cloud  flecked  the  blue  ;  there 
was  a  humming  of  happy  insects  ;  a  smell  of 
rich  and  moist  loam  perfumed  the  air,  and 
in  the  dur;k  of  beeches  and  of  oaks  stood  the 
quiet  homes.  She  paused  now  and  then, 
looking  in  the  gardens,  or  at  a  group  of 
children,  then  passed  on,  smiling  in  content. 

Her  accent  was  so  strange,  that  the  agent 
for  real  estate,  whom  she  visited,  asked  her, 
twice  and  once  again,  what  it  was  she  said. 

"I  want,"  she  had  repeated  smilingly, 
"an  upland  meadow,  where  clover  will 
grow,  and  mignonette." 

At  the  tea-tables  that  night,  there  was  a 
mighty  chattering.  The  brisk  village  made 
a  mystery  of  this  lady  with  the  slow  step, 


234          A  Mountain  Woman 

the  foreign  trick  of  speech,  the  long  black 
gown,  and  the  gentle  voice.  The  men, 
concealing  their  curiosity  in  presence  of  the 
women,  gratified  it  secretly,  by  sauntering 
to  the  tavern  in  the  evening.  There  the 
keeper  and  his  wife  stood  ready  to  convey 
any  neighborly  intelligence. 

"  Elizabeth  Astrado  "  was  written  in  the 
register,  —  a  name  conveying  little,  unaccom- 
panied by  title  or  by  place  of  residence. 

"She  eats  alone, "  the  tavern-keeper's 
wife  confided  to  their  eager  ears,  "  and  asks 
for  no  service.  Oh,  she's  a  curiosity! 
She  's  got  her  story,  — you  '11  see!  " 

In  a  town  where  every  man  knew  every 
other  man,  and  whether  or  not  he  paid  his 
taxes  on  time,  and  what  his  standing  was  in 
church,  and  all  the  skeletons  of  his  home,  a 
stranger  alien  to  their  ways  disturbed  their 
peace  of  mind. 

"An  upland  meadow  where  clover  and 
mignonette  will  grow,"  she  had  said,  and 
such  an  one  she  found,  and  planted  thick 
with  fine  white  clover  and  with  mignonette. 
Then,  while  the  carpenters  raised  her  cabin 
at  the  border  of  the  meadow,  near  the  street, 


A  Lady  of  Yesterday          235 

she  passed  among  the  villagers,  mingling 
with  them  gently,  winning  their  good-will, 
in  spite  of  themselves. 

The  cabin  was  of  unbarked  maple  logs, 
with  four  rooms  and  a  rustic  portico.  Then 
all  the  villagers  stared  in  very  truth.  They, 
living  in  their  trim  and  ugly  little  homes, 
accounted  houses  of  logs  as  the  misfortune 
of  their  pioneer  parents.  A  shed  for  wood, 
a  barn  for  the  Jersey  cow,  a  rustic  fence, 
tall,  with  a  high  swinging  gate,  completed 
the  domain.  In  the  front  room  of  the  cabin 
was  a  fireplace  of  rude  brick.  In  the  bed- 
rooms, cots  as  bare  and  hard  as  a  nun's,  and 
in  the  kitchen  the  domestic  necessaries; 
that  was  all.  The  poorest  house-holder  in 
the  town  would  not  have  confessed  to  such 
scant  furnishing.  Yet  the  richest  man 
might  well  have  hesitated  before  he  sent  to 
France  for  hives  and  hives  of  bees,  as  she 
did,  setting  them  up  along  the  southern 
border  of  her  meadow. 

Later  there  came  strong  boxes,  marked 
with  many  marks  of  foreign  transportation 
lines,  and  the  neighbor-gossips,  seeing 
them,  imagined  wealth  of  curious  furniture ; 


236          A  Mountain  Woman 

but  the  man  who  carted  them  told  his  wife, 
who  told  her  friend,  who  told  her  friend, 
that  every  box  to  the  last  one  was  placed  in 
the  dry  cemented  cellar,  and  left  there  in 
the  dark. 

"An'  a  mighty  ridic'lous  expense  a  cellar 
like  that  is,  t'  put  under  a  house  of  that 
char'cter,"  said  the  man  to  his  wife  —  who 
repeated  it  to  her  friend. 

"But  that  ain't  all,"  the  carpenter's  wife 
had  said  when  she  heard  about  it  all, 
"  Hank  says  there  is  one  little  room,  not  fit 
for  buttery  nor  yet  fur  closit,  with  a  window 
high  up  —  well,  you  ken  see  yourself  — 
an'  a  strong  door.  Jus'  in  passin'  th'  other 
day,  when  he  was  there,  hang  in'  some 
shelves,  he  tried  it,  an'  it  was  locked!" 

"  Well !  "  said  the  women  who  listened. 

However,  they  were  not  unfriendly,  these 
brisk  gossips.  Two  of  them,  plucking  up 
tardy  courage,  did  call  one  afternoon.  Their 
hostess  was  out  among  her  bees,  crooning  to 
them,  as  it  seemed,  while  they  lighted  all 
about  her,  lit  on  the  flower  in  her  dark  hair, 
buzzed  vivaciously  about  her  snow-white 
linen  gown,  lighted  on  her  long,  dark  hands. 


A  Lady  of  Yesterday          237 

She  came  in  brightly  when  she  saw  her 
guests,  and  placed  chairs  for  them,  courte- 
ously, steeped  them  a  cup  of  pale  and  fra- 
grant tea,  and  served  them  with  little  cakes. 
Though  her  manner  was  so  quiet  and  so 
kind,  the  women  were  shy  before  her.  She, 
turning  to  one  and  then  the  other,  asked 
questions  in  her  quaint  way. 

"  You  have  children,  have  you  not  ?  " 

Both  of  them  had. 

"Ah,"  she  cried,  clasping  those  slender 
hands,  "  but  you  are  very  fortunate !  Your 
little  ones,  —  what  are  their  ages  ?  " 

They  told  her,  she  listening  smilingly. 

"  And  you  nurse  your  little  babes  —  you 
nurse  them  at  the  breast  ?  " 

The  modest  women  blushed.  They  were 
not  used  to  speaking  with  such  freedom. 
But  they  confessed  they  did,  not  liking  arti- 
ficial means. 

"No,"  said  the  lady,  looking  at  them 
with  a  soft  light  in  her  eyes,  "  as  you  say, 
there  is  nothing  like  the  good  mother 
Nature.  The  little  ones  God  sends  should 
lie  at  the  breast.  'T  is  not  the  milk  alone 
that  they  imbibe;  it  is  the  breath  of  life,  — 


238          A  Mountain  Woman 

it  is  the  human  magnetism,  the  power,  — 
how  shall  I  say?  Happy  the  mother  who 
has  a  little  babe  to  hold !  " 

They  wanted  to  ask  a  question,  but  they 
dared  not  —  wanted  to  ask  a  hundred  ques- 
tions. But  back  of  the  gentleness  was  a 
hauteur,  and  they  were  still. 

"Tell  me,"  she  said,  breaking  her 
reverie,  "of  what  your  husbands  do.  Are 
they  carpenters  ?  Do  they  build  houses  for 
men,  like  the  blessed  Jesus  ?  Or  are  they 
tillers  of  the  soil  ?  Do  they  bring  fruits  out 
of  this  bountiful  valley? " 

They  answered,  with  a  reservation  of  ap- 
proval. "  The  blessed  Jesus ! "  It  sounded 
like  popery. 

She  had  gone  from  these  brief  personal 
matters  to  other  things. 

"How  very  strong  you  people  seem,"  she 
had  remarked.  "Both  your  men  and  your 
women  are  large  and  strong.  You  should 
be,  being  appointed  to  subdue  a  continent. 
Men  think  they  choose  their  destinies,  but 
indeed,  good  neighbors,  I  think  not  so. 
Men  are  driven  by  the  winds  of  God's  will. 
They  are  as  much  bidden  to  build  up  this 


A  Lady  of  Yesterday          239 

valley,  this  storehouse  for  the  nations,  as 
coral  insects  are  bidden  to  make  the  reefs 
with  their  own  little  bodies,  dying  as  they 
build.  Is  it  not  so  ?  " 

"We  are  the  creatures  of  God's  will,  I 
suppose,"  said  one  of  her  visitors,  piously. 

She  had  given  them  little  confidences  in 
return. 

"  I  make  my  bread, "  she  said,  with  child- 
ish pride,  "  pray  see  if  you  do  not  think  it 
excellent ! "  And  she  cut  a  flaky  loaf  to  dis- 
play its  whiteness.  One  guest  summoned 
the  bravado  to  inquire,  — 

"Then  you  are  not  used  to  doing  house- 
work?" 

"  I  ? "  she  said,  with  a  slow  smile,  "  I  have 
never  got  used  to  anything,  —  not  even  liv- 
ing. "  And  so  she  baffled  them  all,  yet  won 
them. 

The  weeks  went  by.  Elizabeth  Astrado 
attended  to  her  bees,  milked  her  cow,  fed 
her  fowls,  baked,  washed,  and  cleaned,  like 
the  simple  women  about  her,  saving  that  as 
she  did  it  a  look  of  ineffable  content  lighted 
up  her  face,  and  she  sang  for  happiness. 
Sometimes,  amid  the  ballads  that  she 


240          A  Mountain  Woman 

hummed,  a  strain  slipped  in  of  some  great 
melody,  which  she,  singing  unaware,  as  it 
were,  corrected,  shaking  her  finger  in  self- 
reproval,  and  returning  again  to  the  ballads 
and  the  hymns.  Nor  was  she  remiss  in 
neighborly  offices;  but  if  any  were  ailing, 
or  had  a  festivity,  she  was  at  hand  to  assist, 
condole,  or  congratulate,  carrying  always 
some  simple  gift  in  her  hand,  appropriate  to 
the  occasion. 

She  had  her  wider  charities  too,  for  all 
she  kept  close  to  her  home.  When,  one 
day,  a  story  came  to  her  of  a  laborer  struck 
down  with  heat  in  putting  in  a  culvert  on 
the  railroad,  and  gossip  said  he  could  not 
speak  English,  she  hastened  to  him,  caught 
dying  words  from  his  lips,  whispered  a 
reply,  and  then  what  seemed  to  be  a  prayer, 
while  he  held  fast  her  hand,  and  sank  to 
coma  with  wistful  eyes  upon  her  face. 
Moreover  'twas  she  who  buried  him,  rais- 
ing a  cross  above  his  grave,  and  she  who 
planted  rose-bushes  about  the  mound. 

"He  spoke  like  an  Italian,"  said  the  phy- 
sician to  her  warily. 

"And  so  he  was,"  she  had  replied. 


A  Lady  of  Yesterday          241 

"A  fellow-countryman  of  yours,  no 
doubt?" 

"Are  not  all  men  our  countrymen,  my 
friend  ?  "  she  said,  gently.  "  What  are  little 
lines  drawn  in  the  imagination  of  men, 
dividing  territory,  that  they  should  divide 
our  sympathies  ?  The  world  is  my  country 
—  and  yours,  I  hope.  Is  it  not  so?  " 

Then  there  had  also  been  a  hapless  pair  of 
lovers,  shamed  before  their  community,  who, 
desperate,  impoverished,  and  bewildered  at 
the  war  between  nature  and  society,  had 
been  helped  by  her  into  a  new  part  of  the 
world.  There  had  been  a  widow  with  many 
children,  who  had  found  baskets  of  cooked 
food  and  bundles  of  well-made  clothing  on 
her  step.  And  as  the  days  passed,  with 
these  pleasant  offices,  the  face  of  the  strange 
woman  glowed  with  an  ever-increasing  con- 
tent, and  her  dark,  delicate  beauty  grew. 

John  Hartington  spent  his  vacation  at 
Des  Moines,  having  a  laudable  desire  to 
see  something  of  the  world  before  returning 
to  his  native  town,  with  his  college  honors 
fresh  upon  him.  Swiftest  of  the  college 
runners  was  John  Hartington,  famed  for  his 
16 


242  A  Mountain  Woman 

leaping  too,  and  measuring  widest  at  the 
chest  and  waist  of  all  the  hearty  fellows  at 
the  university.  His  blond  curls  clustered 
above  a  brow  almost  as  innocent  as  a 
child's;  his  frank  and  brave  blue  eyes,  his 
free  step,  his  mellow  laugh,  bespoke  the 
perfect  animal,  unharmed  by  civilization, 
unperplexed  by  the  closing  century's  falla- 
cies and  passions.  The  wholesome  oak 
that  spreads  its  roots  deep  in  the  generous 
soil,  could  not  be  more  a  part  of  nature 
than  he.  Conscientious,  unimaginative, 
direct,  sincere,  industrious,  he  was  the 
ideal  man  of  his  kind,  and  his  return  to 
town  caused  a  flutter  among  the  maidens 
which  they  did  not  even  attempt  to  conceal. 
They  told  him  all  the  chat,  of  course,  and, 
among  other  things,  mentioned  the  great 
sensation  of  the  year,  —  the  coming  of  the 
woman  with  her  mystery,  the  purchase  of 
the  sunny  upland,  the  planting  it  with 
clover  and  with  mignonette,  the  building 
of  the  house  of  logs,  the  keeping  of  the 
bees,  the  barren  rooms,  the  busy,  silent 
life,  the  charities,  the  never-ending  wonder 
of  it  all.  And  then  the  woman  —  kind,  yet 


A  Lady  of  Yesterday          243 

different  from  the  rest,  with  the  foreign 
trick  of  tongue,  the  slow,  proud  walk,  the 
delicate,  slight  hands,  the  beautiful,  beau- 
tiful smile,  the  air  as  of  a  creature  from 
another  world. 

Hartington,  strolling  beyond  the  village 
streets,  up  where  the  sunset  died  in  daffodil 
above  the  upland,  saw  the  little  cot  of  logs, 
and  out  before  it,  among  blood-red  poppies, 
the  woman  of  whom  he  had  heard.  Her 
gown  of  white  gleamed  in  that  eerie  radi- 
ance, glorified,  her  sad  great  eyes  bent  on 
him  in  magnetic  scrutiny.  A  peace  and 
plenitude  of  power  came  radiating  from 
her,  and  reached  him  where  he  stood,  sud- 
denly, and  for  the  first  time  in  his  careless 
life,  struck  dumb  and  awed.  She,  too, 
seemed  suddenly  abashed  at  this  great  bulk 
of  youthful  manhood,  innocent  and  strong. 
She  gazed  on  him,  and  he  on  her,  both 
chained  with  some  mysterious  enchant- 
ment. Yet  neither  spoke,  and  he,  turning 
in  bewilderment  at  last,  went  back  to  town, 
while  she  placed  one  hand  on  her  lips  to 
keep  from  calling  him.  And  neither  slept 
that  night,  and  in  the  morning  when  she 


244          A  Mountain  Woman 

went  with  milking  pail  and  stool  out  to  the 
grassy  field,  there  he  stood  at  the  bars, 
waiting.  Again  they  gazed,  like  creatures 
held  in  thrall  by  some  magician,  till  she 
held  out  her  hand  and  said,  — 

"  We  must  be  friends,  although  we  have 
not  met.  Perhaps  we  are  old  friends. 
They  say  there  have  been  worlds  before  this 
one.  I  have  not  seen  you  in  these  habili- 
ments of  flesh  and  blood,  and  yet  —  we 
may  be  friends  ?  " 

John  Hartington,  used  to  the  thin  jests 
of  the  village  girls,  and  all  their  simple 
talk,  rose,  nevertheless,  enlightened  as 
he  was  with  some  strange  sympathy  with 
her,  to  understand  and  answer  what  she 
said. 

"I  think  perhaps  it  maybe  so.  May  I 
come  in  beside  you  in  the  field  ?  Give  me 
the  pail.  I  '11  milk  the  cow  for  you." 

She  threw  her  head  back  and  laughed 
like  a  girl  from  school,  and  he  laughed  too, 
and  they  shook  hands.  Then  she  sat  near 
him  while  he  milked,  both  keeping  silence, 
save  for  the  p-rring  noise  he  made  with  his 
lips  to  the  patient  beast.  Being  through, 


A  Lady  of  Yesterday          245 

she  served  him  with  a  cupful  of  the  fra- 
grant milk;  but  he  bade  her  drink  first, 
then  drank  himself,  and  then  they  laughed 
again,  as  if  they  both  had  found  something 
new  and  good  in  life. 

Then  she,  — 

"  Come  see  how  well  my  bees  are  doing." 
And  they  went.  She  served  him  with  the 
lucent  syrup  of  the  bees,  perfumed  with  the 
mignonette,  —  such  honey  as  there  never 
was  before.  He  sat  on  the  broad  doorstep, 
near  the  scarlet  poppies,  she  on  the  grass, 
and  then  they  talked  —  was  it  one  golden 
hour  —  or  two  ?  Ah,  well,  't  was  long 
enough  for  her  to  learn  all  of  his  simple 
life,  long  enough  for  her  to  know  that  he 
was  victor  at  the  races  at  the  school,  that 
he  could  play  the  pipe,  like  any  shepherd 
of  the  ancient  days,  and  when  he  went  he 
asked  her  if  he  might  return. 

"Well,"  laughed  she,  "sometimes  I  am 
lonely.  Come  see  me  —  in  a  week." 

Yet  he  was  there  that  day  at  twilight, 
and  he  brought  his  silver  pipe,  and  piped 
to  her  under  the  stars,  and  she  sung  ballads 
to  him,  —  songs  of  Strephon  and  times 


246          A  Mountain  Woman 

when  the  hills  were  young,  and  flocks  were 
fairer  than  they  ever  be  these  days. 

"To-morrow,  and  to-morrow,  and  to-mor- 
row," and  still  the  intercourse,  still  her 
dark  loveliness  waxing,  still  the  weaving 
of  the  mystic  spell,  still  happiness  as  primi- 
tive and  as  sweet  as  ever  Eden  knew. 

Then  came  a  twilight  when  the  sweet 
rain  fell,  and  on  the  heavy  air  the  perfumes 
of  the  fields  floated.  The  woman  stood  by 
the  window  of  the  cot,  looking  out.  Tall, 
graceful,  full  of  that  subtle  power  which 
drew  his  soul;  clothed  in  white  linen,  fra- 
grant from  her  fields,  with  breath  freighted 
with  fresh  milk,  with  eyes  of  flame,  she 
was  there  to  be  adored.  And  he,  being 
man  of  manliest  type,  forgot  all  that  might 
have  checked  the  words,  and  poured  his 
soul  out  at  her  feet.  She  drew  herself  up 
like  a  queen,  but  only  that  she  might 
look  queenlier  for  his  sake,  and,  bending, 
kissed  his  brow,  and  whispered  back  his 
vows. 

And  they  were  married. 

The  villagers  pitied  Hartington. 

"She's  more  than  a  match  for  him  in 


A  Lady  of  Yesterday          247 

years  —  an'  in  some  other  ways,  as  like  as 
not,"  they  said.  "Besides,  she  ain't  much 
inclined  to  mention  anything  about  her 
past.  'T  won't  bear  the  tellin'  probably." 

As  for  the  lovers,  they  laughed  as  they 
went  about  their  honest  tasks,  or  sat 
together  arms  encircling  each  at  evening, 
now  under  the  stars,  and  now  before  their 
fire  of  wood.  They  talked  together  of  their 
farm,  added  a  field  for  winter  wheat, 
bought  other  cattle,  and  some  horses,  which 
they  rode  out  over  the  rolling  prairies  side 
by  side.  He  never  stopped  to  chat  about 
the  town ;  she  never  ventured  on  the  street 
without  him  by  her  side.  Truth  to  tell, 
their  neighbors  envied  them,  marvelling 
how  one  could  extract  a  heaven  out  of 
earth,  and  what  such  perfect  joy  could 
mean. 

Yet,  for  all  their  prosperity,  not  one  ad- 
dition did  they  make  to  that  most  simple 
home.  It  stood  there,  with  its  bare  neces- 
sities, made  beautiful  only  with  their  love. 
But  when  the  winter  was  most  gone,  he 
made  a  little  cradle  of  hard  wood,  in  which 
she  placed  pillows  of  down,  and  over  which 


248  A  Mountain  Woman 

she  hung  linen  curtains  embroidered  by  her 
hand. 

In  the  long  evenings,  by  the  flicker  of 
the  fire,  they  sat  together,  cheek  to  cheek, 
and  looked  at  this  little  bed,  singing  low 
songs  together. 

"This  happiness  is  terrible,  my  John," 
she  said  to  him  one  night,  —  a  wondrous 
night,  when  the  eastern  wind  had  flung  the 
tassels  out  on  all  the  budding  trees  of 
spring,  and  the  air  was  throbbing  with 
awakening  life,  and  balmy  puffs  of  breeze, 
and  odors  of  the  earth.  "  And  we  are  grow- 
ing young.  Do  you  not  think  that  we  are 
very  young  and  strong?  " 

He  kissed  her  on  the  lips.  "  I  know  that 
you  are  beautiful,"  he  said. 

"Oh,  we  have  lived  at  Nature's  heart, 
you  see,  my  love.  The  cattle  and  the 
fowls,  the  honey  and  the  wheat,  the  cot  — 
the  cradle,  John,  and  you  and  me !  These 
things  make  happiness.  They  are  nature. 
But  then,  you  cannot  understand.  You 
have  never  known  the  artificial  —  " 

"And  you,  Elizabeth?" 

"John,  if  you  wish,  you  shall  hear  all  I 


A  Lady  of  Yesterday          249 

have  to  tell.  'T  is  a  long,  long,  weary  tale. 
Will  you  hear  it  now?  Believe  me,  it  will 
make  us  sad." 

She  grasped  his  arm  till  he  shrank  with 
pain. 

"Tell  what  you  will  and  when  you  will, 
Elizabeth.  Perhaps,  some  day  —  when  —  " 
he  pointed  to  the  little  crib. 

"As  you  say."     And  so  it  dropped. 

There  came  a  day  when  Hartington,  sit- 
ting upon  the  portico,  where  perfumes  of 
the  budding  clover  came  to  him,  hated  the 
humming  of  the  happy  bees,  hated  the  rust- 
ling of  the  trees,  hated  the  sight  of  earth. 

"The  child  is  dead,"  the  nurse  had  said, 
"as  for  your  wife,  perhaps  —  "  but  that  was 
all.  Finally  he  heard  the  nurse's  step 
upon  the  floor. 

"Come,"  she  said,  motioning  him.  And 
he  had  gone,  laid  cheek  against  that  dying 
cheek,  whispered  his  love  once  more,  saw 
it  returned  even  then,  in  those  deep  eyes, 
and  laid  her  back  upon  her  pillow,  dead. 

He  buried  her  among  the  mignonette, 
levelled  the  earth,  sowed  thick  the  seed 


250          A  Mountain  Woman 

"  'T  is  as  she  wished,"  he  said. 

With  his  strong  hands  he  wrenched  the 
little  crib,  laid  it  piece  by  piece  upon  their 
hearth,  and  scattered  then  the  sacred  ashes 
on  the  wind.  Then,  with  hard-coming 
breath,  broke  open  the  locked  door  of  that 
room  which  he  had  never  entered,  thinking 
to  find  there,  perhaps,  some  sign  of  that 
unguessable  life  of  hers,  but  found  there 
only  an  altar,  with  votive  lamps  before  the 
Blessed  Virgin,  and  lilies  faded  and  fallen 
from  their  stems. 

Then  down  into  the  cellar  went  he,  to 
those  boxes,  with  the  foreign  marks.  And 
then,  indeed,  he  found  a  hint  of  that  dead 
life.  Gowns  of  velvet  and  of  silk,  such  as 
princesses  might  wear,  wonders  of  lace, 
yellowed  with  time,  great  cloaks  of  snowy 
fur,  lustrous  robes,  jewels  of  worth,  —  avast 
array  of  brilliant  trumpery.  Then  there 
were  books  in  many  tongues,  with  rich  old 
bindings  and  illuminated  page,  and  in 
them  written  the  dead  woman's  name,  — a 
name  of  many  parts,  with  titles  of  impress, 
and  in  the  midst  of  all  the  name,  "  Eliza- 
beth Astrado,"  as  she  said. 


A  Lady  of  Yesterday  251 

And  that  was  all,  or  if  there  were  more 
he  might  have  learned,  following  trails 
that  fell  within  his  way,  he  never  learned 
it,  being  content,  and  thankful  that  he 
had  held  her  for  a  time  within  his  arms, 
and  looked  in  her  great  soul,  which,  weary- 
ing of  life's  sad  complexities,  had  sim- 
plified itself,  and  made  his  love  its  best 
adornment. 


THE    END 


V 


